


Uncharted

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Abusive Parents, Aftercare, Anal Sex, Apologies, Awkward Sexual Situations, Begging, Biting, Blindfolds, Bondage, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Dom Drop, Dom/sub, Domme!Rory, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Romance, Friendship, Headcanon: Henchperson is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Humiliation, Intersex Character, Kissing, Klinefelter Syndrome, Lingerie, Literary Discussion, Love Confessions, Making Out, Meeting the Parents, Misgendering, Nipple Play, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Past Domestic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Hamlet, Rimming, Safeword Use, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Slow Dancing, Spanking, Transfem Henchperson, Transphobia, Unrequited Love, Vibrators, awkward sexual roleplay dialogue, deadnaming, discussion of abusive relationships, light painplay, roleplay noncon, sub!Fernald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17401364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Post season 3. (Contains S3 spoilers, obviously.)Fernald was in love with Count Olaf. Then the events of season 3 happened. What comes next?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since Fernald's actor outright confirmed that the character was in love with Count Olaf, I decided to see what I could do using that as a starting point. BECAUSE OLAF DOESN'T DESERVE HIM.

Fernald sat nervously at the table in the back of the shabby cafe, fidgeting with the teacup and saucer on the table before him. He hadn’t touched it. Even the fragrant steam rising from the cup couldn’t soothe his nerves, or the knots in his stomach. He checked the clock on the wall behind the counter again. Five minutes--ten minutes late. He should go. He was making a fool of himself, and had only himself to blame for it. God, what had he been thinking? What was he even thinking now?

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

The familiar voice was like a cold shower down his back. Fernald looked up, unsure of whether to be hopeful or contrite and probably looking a ridiculous mix of both.

Somehow, Fernald found the ability to speak. “I got you a cup of coffee,” he said, gesturing to the second cup opposite him. “I’m sorry if it’s a little cold now.”

Rory took a seat across the table from Fernald. “Thank you.”

The two of them sat, looking down at their respective untouched drinks in silence, until Fernald couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he burst out. “I’m sorry I didn’t go with you. But I couldn’t let those people--they were going to kill Sunny! I had to save her!”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Rory quietly, finally looking up at Fernald for just a moment, deep sadness in their eyes. “I’m sorry we left without you. I’m sorry I thought--when you slipped away from us on Mount Fraught--”

Fernald shook his head. “I don’t know if I would have gone anyway. Not then.”

“That was only a few weeks ago,” Rory pointed out. They finally took a sip of their coffee, but their expression betrayed nothing. 

“A lot has happened since then,” said Fernald. “That may sound trite, but it’s the truth. I found my sister. She saved my life when Olaf tried to kill me. And then we--”

“Olaf tried to _kill_ you?” Rory’s calm facade finally broke, and their hand twitched involuntarily, splashing coffee onto the tablecloth. 

“I mean, only a little,” said Fernald. 

“How?”

“Er...just a little, you know, strangulation.”

Rory reached out and rested a hand on Fernald’s forearm. “Are you okay?”

“I am now,” said Fernald. 

“But he--how could he do that when--he had to have known--” They paused uncomfortably, as if unsure whether to continue the sentence. 

“Known what?” asked Fernald. 

“That you were in love with him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise eventually they'll do something besides awkwardly apologizing to each other.

Fernald could only stare for a moment. It was as if everything had faded out, gone dim, except for the horrible realization that his secret wasn’t a secret at all. Finally, he found his voice. “You--knew?” he whispered. 

Rory nodded. “I mean, yeah.”

Fernald closed his eyes for a moment and made himself take a deep breath. “Was it that obvious? Did everyone know?”

“I didn’t say anything, if that’s what you’re asking.” Rory took another sip of their coffee. “Um. They probably didn’t catch on. I think I only did because--” They paused with a frown. 

“Because why?” asked Fernald. 

Rory shrugged. “Queer people tend to pick up on it when there’s more of us around. Even me.”

Fernald stared down at his tea. He picked it up and took a drink to avoid looking at Rory. It was bitter, far too bitter, and he replaced the cup on the saucer with a sigh. He’d never actually said to another person--in fact, had tried to avoid consciously dwelling on the thought--that his feelings for Olaf led to the obvious conclusion that he wasn’t straight. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

Rory gave him a puzzled look. “For what?”

“For not telling you.” He managed to look up at them now. “You must have felt--alone, in that way.”

“I’m kind of used to it by now,” Rory pointed out placidly. “If it bothered me that much, I wouldn’t have joined the troupe in the first place. And as for not saying anything--it’s okay. You weren’t ready.”

“It seems unfair, though,” Fernald went on. “I mean, I had you around, being, you know, basically out, so I knew I wasn’t the only one. And I’ve never thanked you for that. For being open about who you are. I think that helped me a lot, even if I never said so.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” said Rory, now toying with the handle of their coffee cup, not meeting his eyes. 

Had he made them upset, somehow? Often he found it difficult to tell what they were feeling. 

Fernald pressed on, forcing himself to look at Rory even if they weren’t returning his gaze. “I know I already apologized for not leaving with you, but it’s really--it’s more than that. After everything we’ve been through, honestly...you’re my best friend. And that should count for more than my foolish devotion to someone that I knew would never love me back. I should have gone with you.”

Rory looked up at him then. “You mean it?”

Fernald wasn’t sure which part of his statement they were asking about, but everything he’d said had been sincere, so he simply replied, “Yes.”

They gave him a shy, sad smile. “I’ve never had a best friend before,” they said, and Fernald felt as if his heart were breaking all over again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still basically just talking, but now they walk around, too.

It took Fernald a moment to collect himself after that revelation. Whenever he spent any length of time with Rory, he found himself wondering just what was behind their unreadable demeanor. Especially when they’d come out with a statement so stunningly honest and, well, a bit tragic, and then he’d find himself wanting to hug them and protect them and--

It was just in the same way that he felt protective of Fiona, of course. Though she was practically grown up now. 

He’d felt that way the night that Heimlich Hospital had burned to the ground. 

He cleared his throat. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “This tea is awful, and I bet your coffee isn’t much better.”

“How did you know?” they asked.

“You’ve barely touched it,” said Fernald. “Come on.”

The two of them left the cafe. The weather, while still holding a hint of the gloom that pervaded the city even on the nicest days, was relatively pleasant, and they wandered the streets of the Beverage District with no particular destination. 

“You said a lot has happened the past few weeks,” Rory said after a little while. 

“Yes,” said Fernald, as the two passed a street vendor selling bottles of parsley soda. “I found my sister and my stepfather.”

“Your stepfather?” repeated Rory. “I thought you didn’t get along with him.”

They passed another sidewalk cafe and found themselves at the edge of the Banking District. 

“We talked,” said Fernald. “A lot. We cleared up some old misunderstandings, and things are better now. The two of them have just left on another scientific research mission. They wanted me to go along, but I have things I need to take care of here in the city.”

“Take care of? As in...before you leave for good?” asked Rory in dismay. 

“I don’t know. I’ve been away from them for so long, but at the same time, I have my own life.”

Rory nodded sympathetically.

“What about you?” asked Fernald. 

“What about me?”

“Well, I’m sure you have people you wanted to see when you came back. We were on the run for weeks.”

“Oh.” Rory looked down as if concentrating on the neatly-trimmed, too-green lawn of the nearest bank. “Not really. I have a sister, but she’s really busy all the time because she’s a lawyer and we’ve never been close and--um, that’s all, really.”

Something about the way they skirted the issue told Fernald not to ask about their parents. 

They’d reached the Fountain of Victorious Finance now, where the Extravagant Doves (a species native to the Banking District) splashed in its clear waters. 

“But we--the rest of the troupe--we’re working at a real theatre now,” said Rory, brightening up. “They totally pay us and everything.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Fernald. 

“And the plays are way better--you know, the director there has never even heard of Al Funcoot? We’re actually doing _Shakespeare_ ,” they said, almost enraptured. “You should come watch some night this week.” 

“I’d like that,” said Fernald. “To see you perform--and see the others again, of course.”

“If you were thinking about joining us again, I could introduce you to the director,” Rory volunteered. “She’s really nice and doesn’t shout at us like--” They caught themselves before they said the name, even though Fernald knew their next words were going to be _Count Olaf_. 

“It’s okay,” Fernald reassured them. “You don’t have to avoid mentioning Olaf. I got over him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rory in concern. 

“Trust me,” said Fernald, “you can get over someone pretty quickly when they try to kill you--just because you can’t be as ruthless as them--because you can’t kill a baby, or your little sister--and he’s giving you that look of complete contempt with his hands around your throat--” And he was back in that horrible moment, the crushing pain, the lack of oxygen, the cabin of the _Queequeg_ fading into darkness, and worst of all, the absolute proof of what he’d been denying to himself for so long, proof that Olaf would never, _could_ never feel any sort of affection for him, not love, not friendship, not even human decency--

“Hey. Come back.” That was Rory’s voice, sounding alarmed, and they were holding him by the shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. 

Fernald looked up at them, momentarily disoriented. “Huh?”

“You zoned out pretty hard and you weren’t answering me and--you were scaring me a little. Are you okay?”

They seemed to realize then that they still held onto him, and quickly let go and took a step back. 

“Sorry,” said Fernald, shaking his head as if that would clear his thoughts. 

“You were back there, weren’t you?” asked Rory gently. “When it happened. In your head, I mean--that’s where you went.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “It’s still--it comes back to me sometimes. I should be over it--I thought I _was_ over it--”

“Come here,” said Rory. They took him by the arm again and led him to a bench across from the fountain. Fernald sank down gratefully next to them. 

“You’ve had a traumatic experience,” they said. “That can mess with you a lot afterwards, even if you’ve resolved...whatever feelings you have toward the person involved. I still have nightmares about that hospital sometimes.”

“You do?”

Rory nodded solemnly.

“So you mean…” said Fernald tentatively, “if it keeps showing up like that, even when I don’t want it to, that doesn’t mean it’s because--” He sighed. “I thought maybe I just wasn’t strong enough to forget him.”

“Think of it this way,” said Rory. “You’ve basically been in an abusive relationship for years, even if he never reciprocated your feelings. It can take time to move past that.”

“I just--how could I have been such an idiot?” he wondered aloud. “I spent so long letting him treat me like that, and everyone else, and found myself doing things that I never could have justified before--that I can’t justify now.”

“Shh,” said Rory, gently rubbing Fernald’s arm. “You’re not an idiot. Don’t say that. I know it’s difficult not to tell yourself that in this kind of situation, but you didn’t ‘let’ him do anything to you. He just _did_ it.”

“I still think I’m kind of an idiot for believing...for deluding myself for so long, that I’d ever have a chance with him.”

Rory blinked sadly at him. “You deserve so much better than Olaf,” they said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”

“No?” said Fernald in confusion. “I don’t know. Maybe?”

“You do,” they reiterated firmly. 

Fernald wasn’t sure how to reply to that, and wasn’t sure whether he even believed it, but after a moment he said, softly, “Thanks.” 

The two of them sat in silence for some time, watching the Extravagant Doves shake water from their feathers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this chapter has a performance of Hamlet that features violence and implied incest/sexual violence within the play.

The next night, Fernald went to the theatre as he’d promised, and was taken aback by how good the production was. He must have grown accustomed to the wretchedness of--well, _everything_ under Olaf’s direction. 

He’d acted alongside the rest of his former troupe, of course, but it was a completely different experience to watch them from the audience. The play was a rather bizarre, dark interpretation of _Hamlet_. Most of the roles, naturally, were filled by actors that Fernald didn’t know, but Arturo played King Claudius, Rory was Queen Gertrude, and Jenny and Elvira were a pair of silent jesters that he didn’t remember being in the actual play. Perhaps the director had decided to take advantage of the opportunity provided by having a set of twins in the cast. 

Hamlet himself was quite good, and Ophelia was suitably tragic, but Fernald found himself fascinated by Rory somehow managing to play the most innocently ditzy Gertrude he had ever seen. It shouldn’t have worked at all, yet somehow, with the tone of the production, it did. Strangely enough, the director had chosen to emphasize the sexual tension between Gertrude and Hamlet, but here it was thoroughly one-sided, with Hamlet as the aggressor and Gertrude first oblivious, then in denial, then shrinking from him in fear. During the climactic confrontation in the Queen’s bedchamber, it seemed so _real_ when Hamlet threw Gertrude onto the bed in the come-and-sit-you-down bit that Fernald felt a moment of absolute murderous rage.

Then, after killing Polonius, Hamlet crawled onto the bed, atop Gertrude, giving her a violent shake, seizing her by the throat as he shrieked the line about killing the king and marrying his brother. Fernald’s heart was pounding, and again he had to take a deep breath and remind himself that it was only pretend. 

And at the end, when the whole cast came out to take a bow, he couldn’t believe how overjoyed all of his former coworkers seemed (even if their characters had all been killed off just moments before). 

Making a sudden decision, Fernald stole out of the theatre, moving quickly, hoping his impulsive errand wouldn’t delay him too long. 

Thankfully, by the time he returned, much of the crowd seemed to have dispersed, and he was able to slip backstage without being questioned. He moved quickly--he wanted to see Arturo and the twins again, of course, but first, he had something else to do. 

He tapped on the door of Rory’s dressing room, and they called, “Come in.”

Fernald opened the door and leaned inside the small room, keeping one hook behind his back. Not luxurious by any means, but far nicer than the theatre where the troupe had acted with Olaf. 

“You came,” they said, looking up from their dressing table as if surprised to see him. He seemed to have interrupted them in the middle of removing their makeup. 

“Of course I did,” he said. “You asked me to. You were wonderful, by the way. And you look--” he gestured, trying to settle on a word that wasn’t too excessive. “Amazing.”

“Oh! Um, thank you,” they said, evidently still self-conscious when it came to being complimented. “We have a really good makeup artist.”

“Well, that too,” said Fernald, “but what I meant was that I’ve never seen you look so happy.”

“You know, I really am,” said Rory. They turned back to the mirror and wiped away more of their mascara, then glanced up at Fernald leaning in the doorway. “You can, like, actually come in if you want.”

“Hmm? Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, stepping into the room to reveal what he’d been concealing behind his back. “These are for you.”

Rory stood up from their dressing table and regarded the bouquet of roses in astonishment. “But what--? Why?”

“Figured this might make up for me missing opening night,” said Fernald, “After all, the leading lady should still get flowers. Er, you know. Tradition and all,” he added gruffly. 

“I--wow--this is--thank you.” They took the bouquet, touching the rose petals with their fingertips as if they thought they’d disintegrate. “Although I always thought of Ophelia as the female lead in _Hamlet_.”

“No way,” said Fernald. “It’s totally Gertrude.” Great, now he was picking up their speech habits. 

“Well--thank you.” Rory returned to their dressing table, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of the blossoms, and then gave that shy, heartbreaking smile again as they looked up at him. “No one’s ever gotten me flowers before.”

Once again, Fernald had the overwhelming urge to just hug Rory and somehow fix everything, to take away whatever experiences they’d had that made them react in utter astonishment any time he showed them the smallest gesture of kindness.

“Well, then,” said Fernald, catching their eye in the mirror, “I’m honored to be the first.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which coffee is Serious Business

That same night, Rory introduced Fernald to the director, who promptly offered him a job (“We need a new Horatio anyway”) and told him to report the next day. 

#

“Hey, look who’s here!” said Arturo in surprise when Fernald showed up.

“We feel--” said Jenny.

“--complete again,” finished Elvira.

“I’m glad you decided to come back,” said Rory, and it seemed to Fernald that they were almost smiling. 

#

The following day, when Fernald arrived at the theatre, he was greeted by Rory presenting him with a paper takeaway cup. 

“What’s this?” he asked in surprise. 

“It’s tea,” explained Rory. From anyone else, the words would have sounded like a sarcastic rebuke, but from them, Fernald knew that it wasn’t, despite their completely neutral tone. 

Fernald took the cup from them. “I suppose what I meant was--why are you bringing it to me?” he amended.

“Oh. I stopped on the way to get coffee, and I thought--I mean, you like tea, and--” They gestured vaguely. 

“Thank you,” said Fernald

“I hope it’s the right kind.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Fernald reassured them. “I’m not picky. And actually, I don’t really have anything against coffee, either.”

“Oh, really? I don’t know why I thought you didn’t like it. Actually,” said Rory, picking up speed as they spoke, “I saw this new coffeeshop in the Beverage District that I was going to go check out sometime, and, um, if you want, you could come too? They do pourovers and all their coffees are fair trade, and I saw they had a couple of East African bean varieties that I haven’t tried before, and--sorry,” they said sheepishly. “I know you don’t really care about any of that.”

“I have to admit I don’t know nearly as much about coffee as you,” said Fernald, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. And I’ll total--er, _certainly_ go with you.”

“Really?” they asked, and they actually sounded _excited_. 

It was almost kind of cute--not _cute_ , Fernald corrected himself mentally. Endearing, perhaps. Yes. That was the right word. 

He realized that Rory was looking at him expectantly, still waiting for a reply.

“Yeah, of course,” he said. 

#

Soon enough, over the next few days, Fernald felt comfortable onstage again--it hadn’t been _that_ long, after all. His new coworkers all seemed pleasant and without criminal inclinations of any kind, including the actor playing Hamlet. The man’s name was Javier, and he seemed quite nice, although at first Fernald felt a lingering, wholly irrational animosity toward him. 

But the first time Fernald watched a runthrough of the bedchamber scene, he saw how gentle Javier actually was during it, and how apologetic he was toward Rory afterwards, and the feeling vanished. 

#

A few days later, Fernald accompanied Rory to the previously-discussed coffeeshop. It was the sort of place Fernald would never have gone on his own. With its minimalist decor and incomprehensible--at least to him--menu boards, the place seemed a bit on the pretentious side. 

He was suddenly nervous as the two of them waited in line. He didn’t know anything about coffee, and he didn’t know what most of the terms on the menu meant, and if he tried to pretend, he was going to look foolish and embarrass himself, and probably embarrass Rory, too. 

He leaned closer to them. “Will you order for me?” he whispered. “I’m completely out of my element here.”

Rory looked shocked. “You want me to choose your coffee? Are you sure? What if I get it wrong?”

“I trust your judgment,” said Fernald. “Please?”

“Good afternoon,” the heavily tattooed barista greeted them smoothly. “What can I get for you today, ma’am?”

Fernald glanced quickly at Rory, but they didn’t seem bothered and didn’t correct the barista. A few other times, Fernald had been around when Rory had gotten _sir_ from people, and they’d always given a sort of deflated sigh when it happened. Usually, they spoke up to politely correct the person, but one time they hadn’t, and had admitted later on that they hadn’t had the mental energy that day to deal with the potential backlash. 

But they didn’t seem in that kind of mood right now. Instead, they were having a rather intense conversation with the barista about roast and brightness and other things that Fernald didn’t understand. 

Some minutes later, the two found seats at one of the rather depressing but probably trendy plain pine tables with their coffee. 

Fernald found himself with a drink that the barista had explained was a light roast with floral overtones, although that meant nothing whatsoever to him. He took a sip, but to him, all but the most vile coffee was virtually indistinguishable.

“So,” he began carefully, “I noticed that you didn’t say anything when he addressed you as _ma’am_. Did you just not feel like having that conversation today, or is that something new? You know,” he added earnestly, “I’ll always be willing to correct people for you, if you want me to.”

“Really?” said Rory. “That’s really--I appreciate that a lot. Um, actually, though, lately I’ve realized that I kind of don’t mind _ma’am_. Although,” they mused, “that is still subscribing to a binary view of gender, which I don’t really fit into. But given those options, I guess I feel more feminine than masculine?” They lifted their coffee cup and closed their eyes almost reverently at the scent of the coffee. 

“Should I be using different pronouns?” asked Fernald. 

“Hmm? Oh. No,” they said, and took a drink of their coffee. “At least, not for the time being.”

“Okay,” said Fernald. “Just let me know if that changes.”

“I will,” they said, giving him a subdued smile. “Thanks for always being so understanding.”

That gave Fernald a sudden feeling of lightness in his chest that he didn’t understand. How strange. Perhaps he ought to cut back on the caffeinated beverages. 

“I--er, well--of course.” 

“How’s your coffee, by the way?” they asked.

“It’s...nice,” he said, and realizing how unconvincing that sounded, he went on, “It’s perfectly fine, really. I just feel like it’s wasted on me because it seems the same as any other cup of coffee. I’m sorry,” he added. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just--I’m really glad you came with me, even though I know this isn’t really your thing. Sometimes I get a little nervous going new places by myself.”

“I like hanging out with you,” Fernald reminded them.

“What kind of things do you like to do?” they asked. 

Fernald considered. For so long, his life had been consumed by being a part of Olaf’s acting troupe, by carrying out Olaf’s every whim in the hope that--

“I don’t remember,” he admitted. 

“You don’t remember?” There was no judgement or disbelief in their tone, just mild concern and a gentle nudge toward elaboration. 

“I--I feel like our last job was a 24/7 kind of thing, or at least I made it that way,” he said. 

“What did you do before you became an actor?” asked Rory. 

“I was a marine biologist.”

“Huh.” They tilted their head to one side, considering a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting that, but I can see it. What did you used to do then, outside of work?”

“That was a very long time ago,” he said quietly. He stared down at the table as a memory resurfaced, one that had been too painful to think about. “I used to play the piano, a little.”

“What do you mean, used to?” said Rory. “I’ve seen you play lots of times. You’re pretty good.”

Fernald closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh. When he looked at them, he managed a rueful smile. “It’s not quite the same.”

Even before Fernald spoke, he saw Rory’s stricken expression, the look of absolute self-loathing that flickered across their face. 

“I’m sorry. Of course it’s not. I shouldn’t have--that was a stupid thing for me to say. I’m really sorry.” 

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it.” He couldn’t stand to see them look so sad.”It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay,” said Rory. They twisted their scarf in their fingers miserably for a moment before they looked up at him. “What I said was insensitive. I need to think through what I’m actually saying before I talk.” 

For a moment, silence descended upon the two of them. Fernald sat deep in thought for a few moments. It was rare for him to receive a genuine apology for something like this. In fact, brushing off other people’s thoughtless remarks had become easier than acknowledging them, because then he didn’t have to think about the way he felt--or the way that other people looked at him, or the things he could no longer do. 

“How about this?” he said. “I know you weren’t trying to make me feel bad on purpose. And it means a lot that you apologized. So it wasn’t okay, but I forgive you.”

He almost couldn’t bear the look they gave him then, so honestly pleading and hopeful, as if he were offering them something of far greater value than simple forgiveness. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank you,” they said, quietly and sincerely.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with even more Tragic Backstory!
> 
> This chapter has non-graphic references to past domestic violence.

Around a week later, after a performance, Rory and Fernald were among the last to leave the theatre. Even though it was very late, or perhaps very early, neither of them felt like going home to bed. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” suggested Rory impulsively. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” Fernald protested, but he knew he was going to agree to it. He couldn’t say no, not when they looked so excited like that. 

“It’s better that way,” they said. “There won’t be as many people around.”

Fernald shrugged. “Okay, good point. Let’s go.” Whenever he agreed to do _anything_ with Rory, they always looked so overjoyed, no matter what it was--coffee, a poetry reading, even something as mundane as tagging along on an errand to the post office. Seeing that look, however briefly, had become addictive, and Fernald kept catching himself getting lost in thought, trying to come up with new ways to get them to smile. 

He wondered now if that was abnormal. No. Of course it wasn’t. They were friends--best friends; he’d proclaimed it himself. That's what friends _did_. 

A thought occurred to him. If Rory was so pleased when he accepted their invitations, maybe he should come up with plans of his own and invite them along. So far, he hadn’t, still feeling adrift since his return to the city, though less so than when he’d first arrived. Still, for the past month, he’d been content to follow rather than lead, and was still getting used to the idea that someone actually enjoyed spending time with him. 

Thunder rumbled threateningly overhead, and Fernald realized then that the two of them had been walking along the darkened street in silence. Rory didn’t seem bothered by this, however; perhaps they were also caught up in their own thoughts. 

The two of them wandered down a series of winding side streets. When the rain began, they hurried over the cobblestones and ducked into the nearest doorway, which turned out to be a bar. It was small, but not too crowded, and the interior felt comfortably worn without being dilapidated. Music emanated from an old-fashioned jukebox at the back of the room at a surprisingly reasonable volume. With the low lighting and the rain outside, the place felt quite cozy. 

“I’ve never been here before,” remarked Rory as they looked around the room. “It seems nice.”

“Would you like to stay and have a drink? We might as well, if we’re going to wait out the rain,” said Fernald. 

“That’s a good idea.”

Soon, the two sat at a small table tucked into a dark corner with two glasses of red wine. Still, neither of them felt the particular need to speak, and for a few minutes, just observed the room and the other patrons. A group of younger people seated at the bar appeared to be on a double date, and a few other people occupied tables around the room. The low hum of quiet conversation filled the room. 

Fernald was almost startled when Rory spoke.

“What’s your favorite Shakespeare?” they asked. 

“Tragedy or comedy?” asked Fernald.

Rory shrugged. “Either one. Or history, for that matter, but I don’t think anybody really reads those if they can help it.”

Fernald laughed. “I think you’re right about that. Let’s see--I really like _The Merchant of Venice_ if it’s played as mostly tragic. Especially the ‘do we not bleed?’ speech. What about you?"

One of the young women from the group at the bar went to the jukebox, shuffled through the selections, and put on some ancient pop song that was slow and a bit tragic sounding. For Fernald, the music brought on a feeling that would have been deep melancholy if he’d been alone, but under the present circumstances, was more a kind of yearning that he couldn’t quite put words to.

“I’ve always liked _Twelfth Night_ ,” said Rory. “I mean, I know the tragedies are amazing as dramas, but sometimes it’s nice to have a story without anything super stressful in it.”

They both turned at the sudden sound of laughter from the bar. The woman who’d returned from the jukebox grabbed her date by the hand, trying to coax her out onto the dance floor. The second woman was protesting a little in embarrassment, but both she and her date were laughing, and soon she acquiesced. The two danced slowly to the sad music, holding each other close. Before long, the other couple from their group, a man and a woman, had joined them on the dance floor. 

Fernald turned back to Rory, intending to reply to their last remark, but they weren’t looking at him. Instead, they were staring wistfully at the couples dancing. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“Oh! Nothing. I was just--watching.” They took a drink and wiped away a stray drop of wine from the rim of their glass. 

Fernald hazarded a guess. “Do you...like dancing?” It seemed unlikely from what he knew of them, but he could be wrong.

“No. I mean, I don’t really know. It just--it seems like it would be nice, I guess.”

“Seems like?” Then Fernald thought he understood, and he hoped he was wrong. He was careful to speak gently. “Don’t tell me you’ve never slow danced with anyone?”

Rory shook their head. “I almost did, once.”

“Almost?”

“I was supposed go to my girlfriend’s sorority formal with her, but we broke up right before.”

“Wait, what?” Fernald knew it wasn’t the point, but he couldn’t get past it. “You dated a sorority girl?”

“I mean, not for very long,” Rory admitted. “I figured out pretty quickly that wasn’t my type.”

Fernald took a drink of wine. “What is your type?” He frowned. He wasn’t at all sure why he had just asked that. 

Rory shrugged. “Theatre people, I guess. That’s how I met most of my girlfriends.”

Fernald’s eyebrows went up.

“I mean,” Rory went on hastily, “I say _most_ , but I mean, there were like, only a couple besides the sorority one. And...I went out with this guy for a while.”

Fernald was puzzled by their hesitation to admit this. “Is that...not something you’re normally interested in?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s just--he, um, wasn’t very nice to me sometimes,” said Rory quietly, looking down into the depths of their wine glass. “He messed with my head a lot.” 

“That’s terrible, and I’m sorry that happened,” said Fernald. “No wonder you don’t like to mention it. But I’m glad you got rid of him.”

“Me too. It took me longer than it should have, but I finally left him when he got violent.”

For a moment, Fernald forgot to breathe. “No,” he said finally. “He hit you?”

Rory shook their head and took a long drink of wine. “He only shoved me. But it was still scary. I didn’t know how far he was going to go.”

“That’s still just as bad,” said Fernald. “There’s no _only_ about it.” He had the momentary urge to find this person and hurt him very badly, but he knew that wasn’t a real solution. It wouldn’t help anyone. He took a deep breath, and scooted his chair to the other side of the table, next to Rory. 

“Hey.” He leaned in close. “Listen. Nobody’s ever going to do that to you again. Not to either of us.” If he ever saw anyone even _try_ to hurt them--

“You’re right,” said Rory. “We know better now.” 

Fernald carefully raised his wine glass and said, “Never again.”

“Never again,” agreed Rory, and clinked their glass against his. 

The two drank their wine for a few moments in silence.

Another slow song had started, a sad romantic melody, and the couples from the bar returned to the dance floor. Fernald nudged Rory. 

“Come on.”

They looked at him quizzically. “Are we leaving?”

“No.” He nodded toward the others. “Come dance with me.”

“That’s a kind gesture, but you don’t need to feel obligated.”

“I don’t,” said Fernald. “I’ve been thinking of it ever since the subject came up. I really would like to dance with you. Please?”

After a moment of hesitation, they rose and followed him to the dance floor. Fernald was fully prepared to ignore the sidelong glances from other patrons, but to his surprise, there was no need. He motioned Rory closer. 

“Come on, it’s okay.” He guided their hands to his shoulders, and rested his hooks lightly at their waist. 

“I have no clue what I’m doing,” they said.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just do what I do.”

The best that Fernald could do was try to follow his hazy memories of a waltz that didn’t fit the current song at all, but Rory didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t tell quite what they thought of the whole business, but to him, it felt somehow right, the way they seemed to glide across the floor so lightly in his arms, almost as if they were floating. 

When the song ended, Fernald released them. “Well?” he asked as they returned to their table. “What do you think? You haven’t really been missing out on much, right?”

Rory had a curiously faraway look that he didn’t understand. “That was very nice,” they said. “Thank you.”


	7. Chapter 7

When the rain let up a short time later, the two left the bar. Through some unspoken agreement, instead of returning to the theatre, they proceeded in a new direction, following a path that led them toward the Garden District. Despite the late hour and the wine, Fernald didn’t feel tired in the least. In fact, he was wide awake. 

Although it had been a warm spring day, the rain had cooled the air, and now Rory shivered in their light dress. 

Fernald slipped out of his leather jacket and offered it to them. “Here.”

“Don’t you need it?”

Fernald shook his head. “I’m not cold right now. You are.”

Still with a trace of reluctance, Rory admitted, “I guess that’s true. Thanks.” They put it on and drew it closer around them. “Much better.”

“Good,” said Fernald. The word almost caught in his throat, and he didn’t know why. Something about seeing them wearing his clothing had gotten to him in a way that he didn’t understand, and he kept stealing glances at them until the two of them had reached the Garden District. 

When they came upon the Labyrinthine Lawns, one of the city’s parks famed for its twisting, flower-lined paths, Fernald had a sudden flash of inspiration. 

“Let’s go in here,” he said. 

Rory hesitated. “The sign says it’s closed after dark.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve _completely_ abandoned a life of villainy,” teased Fernald. After he said it, he worried for a second that it would bring up bad memories, but on the contrary, their eyes seemed to light up at the idea. 

“I think that’s the kind of lawlessness I could go for. Now that I think about it,” they added, “it’s been a while since I’ve committed any civil disobedience.”

“Exactly,” said Fernald. “Besides, we won’t cause any harm.” He took a step past the signpost, a tiny act of defiance, and a second later, Rory followed. Before long, the intricate pathways led to the park’s main attraction, an enormous hedge maze. 

“Want to try it?” asked Fernald. 

“I always get hopelessly lost in hedge mazes,” said Rory. “I have, like, no sense of direction.”

“But this time you have me with you,” pointed out Fernald. “I won’t get us lost. I promise.”

Rory seemed to consider for a moment. “Okay,” they said. “I trust you.”

The way they said it so matter-of-factly made him feel a sudden spark of--of--perhaps gratitude, or relief, or some other thing that he couldn’t put a word to. 

The two of them started into the maze. Once they’d rounded the first bend, the dense shrubbery blocked much of the hazy light from the streetlamps outside. 

“It’s so dark in here,” said Rory. “It’s kind of spooky.”

“We don’t have to do this,” said Fernald. “Tell me if you really don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay,” they said. “I don’t mind doing something a little scary as long as you’re here too.”

And the feeling _that_ gave him was definitely--confusing, to say the least. All right, he had to do something about it. 

“Can I ask your advice on something?” he asked as they walked along. 

“Me?” they said in surprise.

“Yes. You know a lot, and you’re good at figuring things out.”

They looked down modestly. “That’s very flattering.”

“It’s true.” 

“Well…” They seemed like they were about to deflect that compliment too, but didn’t. “What did you want to ask about?”

“Suppose that being around a particular person made you feel...peaceful, I suppose? Comfortable? Just the sort of feeling that everything’s all right. And you wanted to spend more and more time with them, and you keep thinking about how to make them happy and also you find them very attractive and just sort of want to protect them and--er, well, that sort of thing. Hypothetically, of course,” he added hastily. “What does--I mean, what _would_ that mean?”

Rory considered a moment. “I wouldn’t say that I’m the best authority on interpersonal relationships, but to me that kind of sounds like being in love.”

Fernald felt as if his heart skipped a beat. He’d known it on some level, of course, but it still gave him a jolt to suddenly admit it to himself. “So then--still just theoretically speaking--what’s to be done about it?”

“You are in love with someone, aren’t you?” asked Rory quietly. They looked almost as if they were sad at the idea.

“No! It’s not--there isn’t--” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say _there isn’t anyone_. “It was only hypothetical.”

“You keep saying that,” said Rory, “but it isn’t very convincing. Who is it? Wait,” they said, realization dawning upon them, “Is it Javier?”

Fernald stared. “What? Javier, as in our coworker Javier, that I just met and have barely talked to? I hardly know him. Why would I--no.”

Rory shrugged and began to toy with the hem of their scarf. “I don’t know. He seems nice. You two would be cute together.” They didn’t actually add _I guess_ at the end of the sentence, but their rather morose tone left it hanging in the air. 

“I’m not in love with Javier,” he said firmly.

The two continued through the maze and rounded the next few corners in silence. 

“I never really answered your other question,” said Rory eventually. “What to do about it, I mean. I, um, actually, I’ve been wondering about that myself lately.”

Fernald considered. “I suppose the obvious answer would be to directly tell the other person how you feel.”

They shook their head, almost panicked at the very idea. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m too scared. I mean, I would be. If it were a real scenario. Which it totally isn’t. All hypothetical, like you said.”

They turned the final corner and reached the center of the maze, a clearing where low hedges and rose bushes surrounded a small gazebo. 

“Right,” said Fernald. 

“And also,” they went on, “after my ex, I swore I would never be with a man again, but recently, I’ve been thinking I might reconsider that if I came across the right person.”

Oh, maybe _that_ was why Rory had seemed sad when they thought Fernald was interested in Javier. It all made sense now, even if the idea was almost too terrible to contemplate. “ _You_ have a thing for Javier, don’t you?”

Rory gave a wry half-laugh. “No. Javier has nothing to do with it.” 

At that moment, thunder cracked deafeningly, as if it were directly overhead, and the two of them automatically clutched at each other in fright. 

Fernald was the first to collect himself. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly, letting go of them and looking up at the sky. “Perhaps the storm isn’t over after all.” 

“Yeah,” said Rory, gazing up at the dark clouds uneasily.

“You’re not afraid of storms, are you?” It was just his luck, persuading them to go into the hedge maze with him only to be caught in the rain. That would be reason enough for Rory to be annoyed with him, and if it turned out they were actually afraid of storms, they’d probably never speak to him again. 

“No,” said Rory. “Actually, I like them. The thunder just startled me. It seemed like it was so close.”

“I like storms, too,” said Fernald. As if on cue, there came another thunderclap, and it began to rain. More accurately, it began to _pour_. 

They both looked over to the gazebo on the other side of the clearing, then at each other, and hurried toward it. Rory moved faster, but slowed and reached back to grab Fernald by the arm, as if afraid of leaving him behind. Although it was only a short distance, the rain came down hard, and they were both very wet by the time they reached the gazebo. 

Once beneath its roof, they both stood there a moment to catch their breath. Fernald looked around. With its open latticework walls, the gazebo didn’t provide the most substantial shelter from the rain, but it was better than nothing. 

“I guess we’re stuck here until the rain stops,” said Rory.

“I could think of worse places to be,” said Fernald. 

Rory sank down onto the gazebo’s narrow bench. “I think we might be here a while.” They began to unwind the scarf from their neck, and at first Fernald was puzzled until he saw that most of the cloth was actually dry. Rory delicately wiped the rainwater from their face, then offered their scarf to Fernald. 

He lowered himself to sit next to them and reached for it, but the satiny material slipped through his hook. 

“Sorry,” he said as Rory retrieved their scarf from the ground.

They reached toward him. “May I?”

This time, the words did catch in his throat, so he could only nod. His heart was suddenly racing as they dried his face with an incredibly gentle touch. No one had ever done anything like that for him before, and the realization was a bittersweet sting. As they moved away, he turned his head, and his cheek brushed against the back of their hand. That shouldn’t make him tremble the way he was now, yet it did. 

“Are you okay?” they asked.

“Yes.”

This wasn’t one hundred percent true, but they seemed to accept his answer. For a moment, the two sat in silence, gazing out into the rain. 

Fernald finally worked up the nerve to speak. “Rory? You remember what I was asking you about a little while ago?”

They turned back to him, their eyes questioning. “Yeah? What’s up?”

He took a deep breath. “I think I’m in love with you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Rory stared at him. “You--you’re in love with _me_?”

“Yes,” said Fernald. “I realize you may not reciprocate, but I thought I should be honest with you.”

“You really mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” said Fernald. “And if you don’t feel the same, that’s completely fine. I’ll get past it. I value our friendship too much to let something like this to come between us. I needed to tell you, though.” He managed to keep his voice calm, but on the inside, he was in agony. Rory was giving absolutely no sign of their feelings on the matter, looking down at their hands folded in their lap with a particularly unreadable expression. 

They looked up and met his eyes. “I do. Feel the same, I mean.”

“You do?” said Fernald in disbelief. 

Rory nodded. “I have for a while, only I couldn’t figure out whether you were interested, and I couldn’t imagine why you’d want me, so I didn’t think--”

“Hey,” said Fernald, resting his hook on their hand. “All those things I said earlier, that I told you were hypothetical? They weren’t. I was talking about you.”

They blinked a few times, and gave his forearm a gentle squeeze, and he knew that at the moment, they didn’t have the words to reply. 

“I’ve been afraid to admit to myself how I felt,” Fernald went on. “Because I’m afraid of getting hurt again. But at the same time, I know that isn’t rational.”

“I can’t believe it,” Rory murmured, still seeming dazed. “I never thought I had a chance.”

“What?” Fernald was shocked. “That’s ridiculous. But I thought I’d never have a chance with you, either.”

“Why would you ever think that?”

Fernald couldn’t meet their eyes when he answered, but he fully believed that he was speaking the truth. “You could find someone better.”

“No,” said Rory, “I couldn’t. I’m not just being self-deprecating. You are wonderful. You--you’re so kind, and I always feel safe with you.”

Fernald closed his eyes and let their words sink in. If they really thought so, even after their previous experiences--“You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.”

“Um, and also," they added with a timid smile, "in case you somehow don’t know, you’re totally hot.”

 _That_ was certainly unexpected, not to mention gratifying. “I--well--thank you,” Fernald managed. “So if I have feelings for you, and you have feelings for me, shall we do something about it? That is, if you’d be willing to reconsider your policy on dating men. If not, I--I understand.” He would be utterly miserable for a while, but, yes, he would still understand. 

“I can definitely make an exception for you,” said Rory, then frowned a little. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course. Have I done something to make you think otherwise?” he asked in concern. 

“No,” said Rory hesitantly. “I just thought you would have kissed me by now if you wanted to.”

Instantly, he was flooded with relief. “Oh, is that all?” 

Rory nodded. 

“I absolutely want to kiss you,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure I had your permission first, and I suppose I got distracted by talking, and--” And they were looking at him in wonderment, as if he’d done something to warrant it, instead of giving them totally the wrong impression. 

Rory leaned in and kissed him softly, and Fernald was astounded by the intensity with which he felt such a small amount of contact. When they moved away, he was trembling.

“Was it just me,” he asked breathlessly, “or was that completely amazing?”

Rory nodded in agreement. “I feel a little dizzy. But in a good way,” they reassured him quickly. 

All that Fernald knew was that he needed to experience the sensation again. Before he had a chance to act, however, Rory pulled him close, and he let himself relax in their arms as they kissed him again and again. 

Neither of them noticed for some time that the rain had stopped.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has non-explicit references to past noncon.

For the next several days, Fernald and Rory scarcely got to see each other, being very busy with work as _Hamlet_ wrapped up and preparations began for the next shows--concurrent productions of _The Mousetrap_ and _The Real Inspector Hound_ playing on alternating nights.

Finally, the two had a moment to themselves after leaving the theatre one night, and went to a late-night cafe. 

Fernald was surprised when Rory ordered green tea. 

“That’s different,” he said. “Is it too late in the day for coffee?”

“It’s never too late for coffee,” said Rory. “Besides, I can sleep as late as I want tomorrow. Or have you forgotten that we finally have a day off?”

“Actually, yes,” said Fernald.

“I wanted to try it,” said Rory, motioning to their teacup, “since you seem to like it. Did you know that the caffeine content of different teas depends on their degree of fermentation? Except herbal teas, which typically have none at all because they aren’t true teas, even though we call them that. A tisane or an infusion is the proper term. The actual tea with the least caffeine is white tea, which is harvested before--sorry,” they said. “I’ve been reading about tea lately, but I didn’t mean to bore you.”

“You weren’t,” said Fernald. He moved his chair around the table to sit next to them instead of opposite, and rested his arm on the back of their chair. They relaxed into his touch, and he was amazed at how much tension ebbed away despite their outwardly calm appearance. 

For a little while, neither of them said anything, enjoying the silence and the closeness as they drank their tea. 

Eventually, Rory seemed as if they were about to speak, then decided against it. 

“What are you thinking about?” asked Fernald. 

“I want to tell you something,” they said, turning their empty teacup in circles on its saucer, “but I’m nervous.”

“I doubt you could say anything that would really upset me,” said Fernald. 

“I know that, but still. You know how you can be worried about something even if it’s irrational?”

“Of course.” Fernald shifted in his seat so that he faced them. “I’m ready to listen whenever you want me to, even if it’s not right now.”

Rory nodded. “Remember, a few weeks ago, when we were at that other coffeeshop and the barista called me _ma’am_ and we were talking about it and I said I’d let you know if anything changed?” They spoke quickly, as if eager to rid themselves of the words. 

“Yes,” said Fernald. 

Now they twisted their necklace into tortuous loops as they spoke. “Okay, so, um, I think I want to try being a girl. I mean,” they gestured, or attempted to, with the hand that was entangled in their necklace, “don’t misunderstand, I still don’t feel as if I fit into the category of strictly male or female, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I guess...I feel more like a woman than not? At least in my head,” they added. “I always thought I was just confused about things after I found out I was intersex--sorry, did I ever tell you that? I don’t remember now. I probably didn’t. But even before that, when they thought I was a boy, it never felt quite right. But for all I know, I might not actually like being a girl, either, and then I’ll change my mind again and you’ll think I’m totally stupid and confused.”

Fernald had to think for a moment before he could respond. That had been a lot of information to take in. “Okay, well, first of all, I don’t think you’re stupid or confused.” He put his arm around them again and drew them closer. “Second, I support whatever you want to do. I was beginning to wonder if you were feeling like that since I noticed you’ve been wearing dresses a lot more lately. And fourth--third--I forget what number we were on--no, I don’t think you mentioned that before, and out of curiosity, how does one, er, _find out_ that one is intersex? I thought that was something that was generally noticeable at birth. You can disregard that last question if you don’t feel like explaining,” he added. 

“No, it’s okay. For a lot of us, they do notice right away, because there are, um, physical ambiguities,” they said, finally freeing their hand from their necklace. “For me, it’s a chromosome thing, so no one had any idea until I got older, and…” They gestured vaguely at their chest. “Sorry, I know this was a lot to spring on you all at once.”

“It’s all right,” said Fernald. He hugged them, and as he rested his head against their shoulder, cheek against their throat, he could feel their pulse racing. He sat up. 

“I hope you weren’t worried about my reaction,” he said. 

“Only a little.”

“You don’t need to,” he said. “I hope you know I accept you, no matter what.” Something else occurred to him. “So should I say _she_ instead of _they_?”

Rory nodded gratefully. “If you would.”

Fernald smiled. “Okay. Please forgive me if I mess up occasionally at first.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“So is it okay if I call you my girlfriend, then?”

Rory’s eyes lit up. “That would be--I would actually really like that.”

“So when I introduce you to my family, I can say _This is my girlfriend, and she’s very beautiful_?”

Rory covered her face in embarrassment. “I hope you don’t say that. It would make me sound totally arrogant and--wait.” She peeked through her fingers at Fernald. “You want me to meet your family?”

“Of course I do. You’re very important to me. As a matter of fact, my sister and stepfather are returning from their research mission next week, and I’d like you to come with me when I see them. If you’re comfortable with that,” he said. “Don’t feel pressured.”

“That’s so sweet of you. Would you like to come back to my place?” asked Rory suddenly. “We haven’t really been able to spend time together since that night in the garden.”

“I would,” said Fernald.

They took the trolley through the city, back to the Beverage District, and Rory led the way to a small cafe and up a side staircase to their--no, _her_ apartment, Fernald corrected himself mentally. 

“It’s a little small,” she said apologetically. 

“It’s very nice,” said Fernald. Definitely nicer than his own apartment. It appeared that Rory cared about things like “cleaning” and “decorating,” which Fernald had never quite managed. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Or tea?”

“We just had tea,” said Fernald. 

“I know, but I don’t really know what else you’re supposed to do when you invite someone over.”

Fernald had a few ideas, but he thought they were best kept to himself. Instead, he glanced toward the overfilled bookshelf next to the sofa. “Tell me about your books,” he said. 

“Um, okay. This side is fiction and this side is nonfiction. Nonfiction is organized by topic, or at least it was, until I ran out of space, and then I just sort of started stacking them on top of each other, and--”

She broke off, caught Fernald by the shoulders, and kissed him suddenly. The two made their way, stumbling, to the sofa, and fell onto the cushions. When they broke apart, both were breathing heavily. 

“Sorry,” said Rory. “Was that too aggressive?”

“Oh my god, no,” said Fernald. “That was _really hot_. No one’s ever just grabbed me and kissed me like that before.”

“Oh. Well, in that case--” She kissed him again, hard, and he was completely captivated. It seemed that her hands were on him everywhere at once, and all he could do was wrap his arms around her and hold on as she kissed him, urgent and unrelenting. 

Fernald found himself lying on his back on the sofa, with Rory over him, caressing his chest, fingers playing along the collar of his shirt. And he heard himself gasping out _yes_ as she pushed up his shirt, kissing down his chest, sucking briefly at his nipples before moving lower, and he was still crying out in incoherent assent. 

“Are you sure?” asked Rory, pausing to look up him seriously. “This isn’t moving too fast for you, is it?”

“No no no, this is great, please go on, please,” he begged. That was unexpectedly a major turn on, too, being made to beg, and the anticipation--

Rory nodded. “Okay,” she said, beginning to unbutton his pants. “I do have a request, though.”

God, he needed her mouth on him--couldn’t even remember the last time he’d done this with anyone. “What’s that?”

“Don’t be too rough with me?” she asked, looking up at him as if pleading for an extravagant favor.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” said Fernald., He didn’t quite understand what she was getting at. “I sort of thought this was a rather passive activity, at least from my side.”

“And, um, let me stop if I need to? I guess that’s really two requests,” she added apologetically. 

Fernald felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. 

“Hold on,” he said, sitting up. “Come here.” 

She obeyed, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers for a moment before pulling back to meet her eyes. 

“Tell me, love,” he said gently, “what kind of terrible people have you been with that you have to ask me for that?”

Rory shook her head wordlessly, and Fernald drew her into a loose embrace. He had a pretty good idea of the answer, anyway. She clung to him tightly, and Fernald stroked her back, though he wasn’t sure how soothing it actually was to be stroked with his hooks. 

“I would never hurt you,” said Fernald, “or try to make you do anything you don’t want to. You know that, right?”

“I know. I know _you_ wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have asked--”

“Shh,” said Fernald. “I’m glad you did. I want you to be able to tell me anything.” He held her close, and she rested her head against his shoulder. “Nobody should get hurt during sex. Not without their consent,” he added conscientiously, “because, you know, some people do enjoy pain.”

“Wait,” said Rory, sitting up suddenly, looking far more intrigued than he’d expected. “Are you…?”

Great, now he had taken things way too far. The current discussion definitely wasn’t the time to bring that up. “Let’s talk about that some other time,” he said hastily. 

“Okay,” said Rory. “Do you want to...I mean, I can totally keep going with what we were doing. I’m really not sad or anything.”

“No, love,” said Fernald. “Not tonight. Come here and just let me hold you.”


	10. Chapter 10

The two of them had sat up talking for hours, nestled together on the sofa. Fernald found it exhilarating, the way that Rory let her guard down in his arms, nuzzling against his chest as he held her close. Neither had wanted it to end, and Fernald readily agreed to Rory’s invitation to stay over. 

“You’re welcome to join me in bed,” she said. “Or if you’d rather not, you can sleep out here--no, wait, that isn’t right. You can have the bed and I’ll take the sofa.”

“I wouldn’t want to kick you out of your own bed,” said Fernald. “But if you really don’t mind, I would like to join you.”

Now, a short while later, Fernald lay in the surprisingly spacious bed, waiting for Rory to emerge from the adjacent bathroom. He hadn’t known being in bed alone could be so pleasant. The pillows were fluffy, the bedsheets decadently soft, and lying on the mattress felt like sinking into a cloud. He’d often seen mattress advertisements to this effect, but had never believed them before. 

Then Rory returned. She’d changed into a filmy lavender negligee and he tried to avert his eyes, a phrase which here means “completely failed to stop staring, but still knew that it was impolite to do so,” and he was very thankful that she joined him in bed and clicked off the bedside lamp without seeming to notice the effect she’d had on him. 

“How about a kiss goodnight?” she asked softly, and Fernald obliged. What he’d meant as a tender, innocent kiss somehow turned into something neither of them had anticipated. There was tongue involved, and his heart pounded as he felt her chest press against his, and then she bit his lower lip. He rolled over and pulled her on top of him, and for the second time that evening, her hands skimmed over his chest and stomach. She kissed his neck and it felt _incredible_. As he embraced her, his wrists glided easily over the silky material, over her waist and hips, and--

And she’d stopped, leaving Fernald panting and confused as he stared up at her. “What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“Nothing at all,” she said. “But earlier you said you didn’t want to do anything else tonight, so I wanted to check in. I’m not pressuring you into anything, am I?”

“No, no, you’re not. I--er, I would say the mood has shifted. I definitely have no objection. As long as that’s all right with you?” he confirmed.

“Yes. I want you--need to touch you--” And as if she’d never left off, there was her hand between his legs, grasping his hard cock, and he shuddered. 

“All right?” asked Rory again. 

Fernald nodded. “Yes--that’s--it’s been a while for me,” he admitted. 

She slowly pulled down his boxers and curled her hand around his erection. He gasped, feeling as if all his muscles were tensing as she began to stroke him. Then she sank down on the bed until her face was just inches from his cock, and looked up at him. 

“May I?”

Every time he thought he had a handle on the situation, she’d do something else amazingly sexy and he completely lost his bearings again. Fernald could only nod. Rory took the head of his cock into her mouth as she continued to stroke him. He concentrated on staying still. It was against every instinct that he had, but he’d promised, and he knew how much she trusted him, and god, her tongue teasing that spot just below the ridge--

“I’m going to come,” he warned her quickly--he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer--and she _kept going_ and his orgasm hit him. She continued to work his cock gently as he emptied into her mouth. He knew he was being loud--hopefully the neighbors wouldn’t hear, if there even were any neighbors--and then she released him, leaving him gasping for breath, totally incapacitated, tingling all over.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded when he could speak again, and she did. The contact helped to bring him back down to earth, her body warm against his, the faint taste of himself as she kissed him, and all he could do was to bury his face against her throat and hold on tight. 

“It’s all right, I’m here,” she murmured as he trembled against her. 

“It’s not--it’s nothing bad,” he managed shakily. “Oh my god. That was--just so intense. I didn’t know anyone could make me feel like that.”

Rory only gave a smile that was far too innocent, considering what she’d just done, and kissed him once more. 

For a little while, Fernald just lay there and breathed, the scent of her perfume intoxicating him, sedating him. But he couldn’t go to sleep yet.

“I think I’ve recovered,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing right now.”

“What? But you just--”

Rory kissed him again. “I’m okay. Really. I got what I wanted.”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally sure. All I want now is to fall asleep next to you.”


	11. Chapter 11

The next afternoon, the two decided to go to the city art museum to see a new sculpture exhibit on loan from Peru. 

Fernald arrived first and waited anxiously on the front steps of the museum. He hoped he looked presentable. It had been a long time since he’d been to a museum, and he didn’t remember how formal one ought to look. He’d settled on a shirt and jacket with no tie--he’d long since given up on proper neckties, and resorting to a clip-on just felt like admitting defeat. He was also anxious--or perhaps nervous; he could never remember the difference between the two--because he was eager to see Rory again, even though he’d woken up next to her just that morning. A memory of the night before flashed into his mind, and he tried quickly to suppress it. This was _not_ a convenient time for the inevitable physical response to dwelling on that thought. 

Then he turned to see Rory making her way up the steps, and he hurried to meet her. She’d done her makeup, subdued but still striking against her plain black dress. 

“You look stunning,” were the first words out of Fernald’s mouth. “Also, hello. Nice to see you again.”

“Hello. You also look very nice,” said Rory. She kissed him on the cheek, and he still felt as if he were floating when she spoke again. “Shall we go in?”

The whole afternoon in the museum felt unreal to Fernald. Even though they were in public, Rory stayed close to his side, kept a hand on his arm, not at all trying to conceal the fact that they were together. She wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him. 

Fernald knew that one ought not to evaluate one’s personal worth by the attractiveness of one’s partner, a thoroughly subjective matter anyway, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of pride-- _she’s with me, and everyone knows it_. And throughout the afternoon, Rory kept giving him a thousand little touches, tiny gestures of affection, and he was far happier than he felt he had any right to be. 

And try as he might to ignore it, all those little touches were driving him wild, making it harder and harder not to think of the previous night’s activities. The more he tried to put it out of his mind, the more he could only think of how much he wanted her, how badly he wanted to please her since he hadn’t had the chance--

“Are you all right?” asked Rory quietly. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine, fine,” Fernald answered hurriedly. Certainly not having extremely inappropriate thoughts, waging a war of logic and propriety against physical reaction in the midst of a display of disconcertingly erotic sculpture.

“I just wondered because you seem to be, um, sweating a lot, and it isn’t especially warm in here,” she said, touching his forehead lightly.

Fernald darted a quick glance around, making sure that the two of them were alone in the small side room, and kissed her. 

“ _Oh_ ,” she said when he let go. “I see.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“What are _you_ thinking?” Fernald asked. 

A mischievous smile played over her lips. “I was just thinking that it _is_ almost closing time,” she pointed out. “Perhaps it’s time we should be going.”

Fernald had to take a deep breath, and nodded wordlessly. 

Though it was not at all a long journey, to Fernald it felt like hours before the two of them had reached Rory’s apartment. His was further away, and frankly not in any condition for guests. She’d been telling the truth when she’d said it was almost closing time--night was beginning to fall, and along the streets, the streetlamps were coming to life, a soft hazy yellow in the blue dusk. 

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me,” said Fernald as he made his way up the stairs behind her. “I haven’t been so distracted like this since I was sixteen.” And of course, from where he stood, he couldn’t help but take in the view as she swayed up the stairs in front of him, god, her legs in that _dress_ \--

As soon as the door fell shut behind them, Fernald kissed her again, and quickly found, to his delight, that he was very much _not_ the one in control. He was being pushed down into an armchair, and she was in his lap, kneeling over him, kissing him, and all he could do--all he _wanted_ to do--was to let it happen. 

When she finally stopped to take a breath, his head was spinning. “You could do that to me forever and I wouldn’t complain,” he murmured. “Although I do have to say, if I didn’t before, last night was--absolutely--” A thought he’d had the night before occurred to him. “By the way, you don’t have neighbors, do you?”

“Only the people in the cafe downstairs,” she said, and her eyebrows went up. “Why? Were you thinking of causing a disturbance?”

“Oh, hopefully,” he said, so sincerely that she laughed, and he never thought _that_ could be a turn on either, yet somehow it was. 

“What kind of disturbance were you thinking?” she asked as she began to unbutton his shirt. 

“I was hoping--mmm.” He broke off as she kissed him below the jaw, down his neck, along his shoulder. 

“Yes?”

“I--oh my god--”

She traced a finger over his mouth teasingly, shifted on top of him so that now her knee rested between his thighs and he knew she could feel his hard cock pressing against her. 

“Want me to suck your dick again?” she whispered.

“No--I mean, yes, of course I do, but not just now. You’re very distracting,” he protested, but it wasn’t as though he minded. 

“What would you like to do instead, then?”

“I--” Now that she’d mentioned it, the suggestion was very, very tempting, but that still wouldn’t satisfy his need to please her, the real reason he’d gotten so worked up today. “Let me do something for you.”

“Like what?”

“Anything you want, love. Anything you say.”

A new expression flickered across her face, too quickly for Fernald to grasp its meaning, but whatever idea it was must have been shelved for the time being. Rory nodded and led him into the bedroom. 

Fernald took off his shirt and prosthetics. He was glad that it was dark outside and Rory had only turned on the lamp--too much light would have left him feeling exposed, even though he knew there was no reason to worry. He suspected that Rory might feel the same. As he turned back to her, she sat at the edge of the bed, taking off her stockings. 

When she came to him again, he kissed her, stroking the now-bare skin of her calves. He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, sliding the straps of her dress down off her shoulders, letting the garment slide lower to expose her black satin bra. 

“May I? Please?” he added, and he thought that the _please_ made her shiver a little. _Good to know._

“Yes.”

He kissed her chest, touching her breasts gently. 

“Harder.”

He obliged, pushing down with more pressure, soft flesh yielding to his touch. She pulled down her bra, and he took the invitation to kiss her breasts, flicking his tongue over her lovely pink nipples, and she was breathing hard underneath him, fingers digging into his arms. 

Unable to see what he was doing with his face buried between her breasts, he still managed to push up her dress, exploring the smooth skin of her thighs. His wrist found its way higher and higher until he’d reached her panties, the silky cloth damp and stretched tight over her swollen cock. She thrust against his arm with a breathy sigh. 

Fernald sat back, lifting her dress higher and pushing her knees apart. “Is this all right?” he asked, and kissed her just above the knee. 

Rory nodded. “Yes. Just--”

He paused and rested his chin on her knee to look up at her. “Just what?”

“If--if you think I’m not reacting enough, don’t get mad and stop?” she asked. “I mean obviously stop if you want to stop, but not, like, for my sake. It’s not that I’m not enjoying it, I’m just kind of quiet, but if it bothers you, let me know and I’ll try harder?”

Fernald mentally set aside this information to fully react to at a later time, and just nodded. “You’ll tell me if I do anything you actually don’t like, then?”

Rory nodded assent, and Fernald began to kiss and stroke her thighs, moving slowly higher, caressing her hips and ass. He breathed in her scent, perfume and salt, and took a moment to steady himself. 

“Take these off for me, will you, sweetheart?”

Rory gave a whimper and removed her panties, finally freeing her cock. Fernald kissed slowly up the underside from her balls all the way to the head, then dropped back down to kiss and lick along the same path over and over until Rory was taking deep, shuddering breaths, twitching in response to the least contact, before he finally took her cock into his mouth. She gasped, and he swallowed her deeper, letting the muscles of his throat work around her. 

“Ohmygod,” she breathed as he pushed her legs further apart and took her in completely. “Ohmygod, ohmygod--”

He pulled back, moving rapidly up and down on her cock, and before long, her hand was at his shoulder, squeezing hard. “I--I’m--” She cried out then as she finished, arching up off the bed, and lay in a daze for a moment. 

“You know, love,” he said, “if anyone ever told you that you’re too quiet, they must not have known what they were doing.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring the return of the Henchperson's non-canonical sister.
> 
> This chapter has violence, abusive parents, and transphobia.

Fernald should have known that everything was going too well. Something had to go wrong sooner or later. A few days after their visit to the museum, Rory had asked Fernald to come meet her sister, and he agreed without a second thought. 

On an overcast morning, the two took the trolley over to the Law District to a well-kept townhouse with geraniums in the windowboxes, the red of the petals contrasting sharply with the white curtains behind them. 

The door was opened by a tall brunette woman with intense eyes. She didn’t smile, but beckoned them both inside. 

“It’s been long enough,” she said flatly, but the words held no rancor. 

“I’ve been busy,” said Rory unconcernedly. “So have you. By the way, this is my sister, Clarissa. This is Fernald. Did you get taller?” she continued, and it took Fernald a second to realize that Rory was addressing this last remark to Clarissa. 

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Magic. Witchcraft, specifically. One human sacrifice per inch.”

The two sisters looked at each other for a moment, then both broke into subdued laughter.

Clarissa raised one foot to show her very high-heeled (and very expensive-looking) shoes. “It’s easier to be intimidating if you’re tall. Especially when you’re arguing a case before the High Court.”

“ _I_ don’t feel intimidating,” mused Rory.

“I think it only works if you’re trying,” said Fernald. 

Clarissa kicked off her shoes, becoming noticeably shorter, and looked up at Rory and Fernald. “I should have kept them on,” she said ruefully. “I already feel the beginnings of an inferiority complex coming on. Although Sigmund Freud would probably have a different idea about its basis.”

“Clarissa studied psychology before she went to law school,” Rory informed Fernald. 

Clarissa led the way into the drawing room where a silver tea service sat waiting. “Tea?”

She poured them each a cup, and began to tell of a recent High Court case whose details had been butchered by the Daily Punctilio. Fernald began to relax. Clarissa seemed like a pleasant, well-read person, and she immediately switched pronouns without a second’s hesitation as soon as Rory mentioned it. 

“How come we don’t see each other more often?” wondered Clarissa aloud, as she refilled their teacups. 

“You’re usually pretty busy with work,” said Rory, “and my last job...um...involved a lot of travel. But now I’m back in the city, so--” She was interrupted by a sharp, prolonged knocking at the front door. 

“That can’t be…” Clarissa trailed off. 

“You didn’t,” said Rory in dismay. Her teacup clattered down onto its saucer. 

“Of course not! I know you don’t get along.” She frowned. “I did mention you were coming over, but I certainly didn’t invite them.”

Fernald was completely lost, left looking from one to the other.

Clarissa rose from her armchair and went out to the front hall. Rory trailed after her hesitantly. Fernald didn’t know what to do, so he followed as well. 

“What’s going on?” whispered Fernald, as Clarissa reached the front door. 

“Our parents,” said Rory in total dread, gripping Fernald’s forearm tightly as the door swung open. “I’d know that knock anywhere.”

An older couple stepped inside--a man and a woman with matching dour expressions. 

“Mom, Dad,” Clarissa said, a warning in her tone. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, we just dropped by,” said the woman in a falsely bright voice, “since you mentioned your brother was visiting.” She shouldered her way past Clarissa; the man followed grimly. 

“Actually, she’s my sister now,” Clarissa corrected. 

“I thought last time he was spouting some nonsense about not being any gender,” said the man. 

Rory was frozen next to Fernald, and he put an arm protectively around her waist. He did not like where this was going. For that matter, he didn’t like where it had already gone. 

“Well, that’s changed,” said Clarissa, “and now _she’s_ my--” but it wasn’t enough to stop the woman from sweeping across the hall toward Rory and Fernald. 

She looked at Rory and shook her head in obvious disappointment. “Orlando,” she said, and Rory flinched as she said it. “I had hoped things would be different now, but obviously I was mistaken.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Rory, but her voice was barely above a whisper. 

“You look goddamn ridiculous in that dress,” said her father roughly. “And all this,” he gestured exaggeratedly to his own face, apparently alluding to her makeup. “Just about makes me sick.”

Rory shrank back against Fernald. 

Although he didn’t want to intervene in a family quarrel, he’d had enough. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he said. 

“And just what is _this_?” said Rory’s mother, looking down her nose at Fernald as if he were an insect. 

“Mom, don’t,” said Rory miserably. “Leave him out of this.”

Apparently under some delusion that she could salvage the situation, Clarissa said in a strangled tone, “Mom, Dad, this is Rory’s boyfriend, Fernald.”

“These are the sort of people you’ve been associating with?” said the man, looking Fernald up and down in clear disapproval. 

“Leave him alone,” said Rory, but neither of her parents took any notice. 

“I think it would be best if you came back at another time,” said Clarissa pointedly to their parents.

“Orlando, dear,” said the woman, “this really isn’t a sensible way--are you listening to me?”

“Maybe I’ll listen _when you stop calling me that name_ ,” Rory snapped. This was the only time Fernald had ever seen her angry, or at least approaching angry.

“That’s no way to speak to your mother!” barked the man. “You apologize at once.”

Rory turned her face away. Her fingers were digging into Fernald’s arm so hard it was painful, but that was among the least of his concerns. He looked up and met her father’s eyes, not bothering to feign any semblance of civility. 

“Do you hear me?” Her father took a step forward, and even as Rory flinched again, he grabbed her hard by the arm, jerking her towards him. 

At that point, it was very clear to Fernald that the proper course of action was to immediately lunge forward and slam him against the wall, which he did without a second thought. 

“ _Never touch her again!_ ” he growled, and then the man took a swing at him, missed, and grabbed at him violently, seizing him by the collar. 

Suddenly everything blanked out and he was back on the _Queequeg_ , Olaf standing over him, Olaf’s bony hands crushing the life from his body as his sister watched helplessly, gasping ineffectually for air that wouldn’t come, even though the room was filled with it-- _water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink_ , his brain recited as if mocking his plight. 

The front hallway of Clarissa’s house blinked back into focus as Fernald stumbled. The wall slammed into his shoulder as he sagged against it, grounding him back in reality. 

Rory pushed her father away, stepping between him and Fernald. “Stop it!”

In a quick, decisive motion, the man slapped her across the face. 

Fernald had to intervene, it was pure instinct, but--how had he ended up on his knees on the floor? He needed to get up, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe--

He looked up. Clarissa had rushed to Rory’s side. Their father drew back as if about to strike her again. Fernald could only watch in horror, but the man’s motion was arrested as the woman’s restraining hand fell on his arm. 

Then Clarissa, in her commanding lawyer’s voice, ordered, “Get out! Right now. Get out of my house.”

Fernald didn’t pay any attention to the couple leaving, or to Clarissa slamming the door behind them, or to her hurrying past them back into the drawing room. All he could focus on was Rory sinking to her knees next to him, holding him--and the angry red mark across her cheek where her father had struck her. 

“Are you okay?” she was asking. “Did he hurt you? I can’t believe--” Tears began to flow down her face. 

“Shh, don’t worry,” said Fernald, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine.” He needed to be strong now, to take care of her--

“You are _not_ fine,” said Rory severely, or as severely as she could while sniffling and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I saw the look on your face when he grabbed you. I _know_. And you can’t even stand up.”

“I can.” Fernald forced himself unsteadily to his feet, fueled primarily by the rage he felt toward Rory’s parents. “See?” 

“I wasn’t saying that so that you’d make yourself do it anyway,” Rory protested as she followed him back through the doorway of the drawing room, where Clarissa poured amber liquid from a crystal decanter into three glasses. 

Lightheadedness overtook Fernald again then, and he was grateful for Rory leading him to the settee, sinking down onto its cushions next to him and taking him in her arms. They clung to each other, both trembling and at a loss for any further words. 

Clarissa quickly threw back the contents of one of the glasses, and brought the other two to Fernald and Rory. “You two look like you could both use a drink.”

Fernald nodded numbly, and took the glass from her. He sipped the liquid and found it hideously unpleasant, reminding him of smoke and paint thinner, but it did seem to shock some feeling back into him. 

“Now, what the hell was that about?” demanded Clarissa.

“I’m sorry,” said Rory. “We’ll go too, just as soon as--” She indicated Fernald, still huddled against her. 

“No, that’s not what I mean. Drink that,” said Clarissa. “It’ll help.”

Rory looked doubtfully at her glass, took a drink, and grimaced at the taste. 

“Have they always talked to you like that?” asked Clarissa.

When Rory spoke, she sounded exhausted. “Not _always_. Only when it came to the inevitable fight about me not being what they wanted. By the time I was in college--you were still away at boarding school then--that’s when it devolved into _only_ fighting, and eventually I didn’t come back. And, um, also because they told me not to.”

“I had no idea,” said Clarissa. “Oh my god. Why didn’t you ever tell me that’s what happened?” She poured herself another drink. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked in afterthought, nodding down toward Fernald. 

“I’m all right,” said Fernald, as if insisting it would make it true. 

The sisters exchanged a look. 

Clarissa stood. “Let me get you some ice.”

“You don’t need to,” said Rory. “I don’t really care for this drink anyway.”

“ _Not_ for the drink,” said Clarissa. “For your face.”

“Oh,” said Rory. “Right.”

When Clarissa had left the room, Rory asked, “Please talk to me? And don’t just keep saying you’re all right.”

“Okay, I’m not all right, but--” Fernald struggled to make sense of his thoughts. “No offense, but I think I hate your parents.”

Rory gave a mirthless laugh and took another sip of her drink. Fernald thought she seemed less shaky now, even if she didn’t enjoy the liquor. “I don’t have parents. But if you’re talking about _those_ people...I don’t blame you.”

“Are you all right?” asked Fernald. “I mean, no, of course you’re not, but...God, I was afraid you were going to get really hurt.”

“I think you were in more danger of that than I was,” Rory pointed out. “I still can’t believe--he was never violent like that before. Not to the point of getting in a fistfight with someone.”

“Why do I have the feeling that it’s only because he’s used to getting his own way?” murmured Fernald. 

“I guess that’s true,” admitted Rory. “I’m not very good at confrontation. I’m sorry. This is all my fault. If I’d been able to stand up for myself like I should have, you wouldn’t have had to step in, and then none of this…” She trailed off, gesturing in a way to indicate the general surroundings. 

“You were doing a pretty good job of standing up for yourself,” Fernald pointed out. “They just didn’t want to hear it. And if anything, I should be the one apologizing.”

“What? Why?” 

Fernald sat up and turned to face her. Though he much preferred resting in her arms as he had been, he wanted to look her in the eye as he explained himself. 

“Don’t you remember a while back, when I told you no one would ever hurt you again?”

Rory nodded. 

Fernald went on: “Well, I meant it. Even if I didn’t say this part out loud, I promised myself that I would never, ever let anyone do anything to you. But I failed, and I’m sorry.”

Rory leaned in closer to Fernald, drawing her knuckles over his stubble. “Hey. If I recall correctly, that was a mutual promise, and I didn’t exactly keep my end of it either. The important thing is that we both tried.”

“I suppose,” admitted Fernald grudgingly, although he still wasn’t sure that he could absolve himself of his guilt completely. 

“Here,” said Clarissa, reentering the room and handing Rory a small bundle that looked like a crumpled kitchen towel. “Ice,” she explained. 

“Thank you,” said Rory. 

“So I have to admit that I’m still struggling to fully process this, but I believe you were about to explain why you never told me that our parents are apparently totally appalling bigots,” Clarissa reminded her. 

“Oh.” Rory shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“You thought...what, that I knew and just didn’t care?” 

“You don’t care about a lot of things,” said Rory, and it was simply a statement of fact, acceptance, not an indictment. 

Clarissa’s expression faltered for a moment. “I’m not that heartless,” she said quietly. “You’re still my big sister, even if we’ve never been very close.” She joined them on the settee, and Fernald watched as the two women exchanged the type of hug given by people who prefer to avoid hugging, keeping their distance and patting each other on the shoulder. 

“Well,” said Clarissa, straightening up and reaching again for the decanter. “I’m sorry this turned out to be such a somber occasion. I can’t imagine either of you wanting to repeat it in the future.”

“We should totally hang out again,” said Rory emphatically. “Maybe next time you can even come to our place.”


	13. Chapter 13

Rory referring to her apartment as _our place_ stayed in Fernald’s head for days after that. Although nothing had been officially decided, it was true that he’d been staying over quite often--nearly every night, in fact. He slept much easier in her bed than on the hard twin mattress in his own apartment--and, of course, with Rory lying next to him, warm and soft and snuggling against him in her sleep. 

On this particular night, Rory sat up in bed, reading by the light of the bedside lamp, while Fernald lay next to her, simply enjoying the moment. Not too long ago, he never would have imagined himself in this situation--a life free of morally dubious demands, a job that brought both personal and professional fulfillment, an attractive partner who returned his feelings. Once again, he was struck by how unbelievably lucky he felt, and then the tiny voice of doubt at the back of his mind whispered, _do you really think you deserve all this?_

Fortunately, the thought was drowned out when Rory spoke. 

“Fernald?”

“Yes?”

She closed her book, but didn’t look up from it, toying with the corners of the pages. “You know how a while ago, you mentioned, um, how some people enjoy pain, like in a sexual way?”

Fernald had wondered if she’d bring this up. He did remember, and also remembered promising to talk about it later, although the subject had never actually been revisited. “I remember.”

“Is that something that you’re into?”

Instantly, he was stumbling over his words. “It’s--I, er, well--I mean, if that’s not something you’re interested in, then of course you needn’t feel--that is to say--”

Rory looked up at him then, setting aside her book. She shifted closer and rested a hand on his arm. “Hey, don’t be embarrassed. Even if it turns out we’re not on the same page, at the very least we can talk about it.”

Fernald nodded. After all, he could trust her, he reminded himself. It wasn’t as if she’d leave him for it... _probably_ , added the voice of doubt. He decided to go for it. “All right. Let me preface this by saying it’s not something I _need_ , and I’m perfectly happy the way things are--but, yes, I do enjoy pain.”

Rory didn’t react in any discernible way. “As in, inflicting pain? Or…?”

“No!” said Fernald quickly. “I don’t know if I could do that, even if the other person wanted me to. I like...being hurt,” he confessed. “Within reason, of course. And, er, being told what to do, that sort of thing.”

Rory seemed immediately relieved. “Oh, _that_ ,” she said. “I can do that. I _like_ that. I was worried it might be the other way around. Because, to be honest, I really don’t enjoy that at all.”

“You...like it?” Fernald repeated, suddenly much more excited than the conversation warranted. “As in, you get off on hurting people?”

“I mean, like, willing participants, obviously. But, yeah. Like you said, I don’t _need_ to do it, it’s just sort of something I discovered in a previous relationship, and I wasn’t going to bring it up, but...”

“No, no, I’m glad you did. _Very_ glad,” said Fernald. “Would you be willing to try that sort of thing with me?”

“Of course. So, tell me,” she said, with what Fernald now recognized as an impish smile, even though it might have appeared to others that her expression had barely changed, “What exactly do you like?”

Being asked directly, Fernald was again struck with embarrassment. “I--well, you know, the usual sort of things, I suppose.”

“You mean like this?” She leaned over to kiss him on the throat, and then suddenly the kiss had turned into a bite, sharp and stinging and exquisite. He gasped, shuddering, and didn’t regain the ability to answer until Rory had released him and sat back. 

“Y-yes,” he panted. “Like that, for example.”

“Are you going to tell me what else you like,” she asked, “or do I need to investigate for myself to find out?”

He grinned. “Is that a threat? I just might take you up on it.”

And just like that, she was on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning his arms above his head, leaning down to kiss his neck again, softly licking and kissing the spot where she’d bitten him before. She continued, moving lower, a light touch of teeth against his skin, gentle bites, not enough to really hurt. 

“Harder,” he urged. 

“Why’s that?” she asked in mock innocence. “Do you like biting?”

“Yes, I do, please---aah!” He cried out as she rewarded him with a harder bite, sinking in her teeth until he arched his back, trembling, awash with delectable pain. 

“Again?” he breathed. “Please?”

“Maybe if you give me some more information,” she said, kissing his face, his throat, his chest, far, far too gently. 

“Mmm--I like being held down like this...I like scratching...spanking…” She released his wrists and he shuddered as she slid both hands under his shirt and raked her nails down his sides. “God, yes, like that.”

She leaned down again and kissed him, a brutal, overbearing kind of kiss. At first he didn’t realize she was pushing up his shirt, and when she broke away from him, she lowered herself to kiss his chest, once again touching him, kissing him just hard enough to tease him with the promise of pain. 

“Please--”

“You say _please_ a lot,” Rory murmured. “I think you like it when I make you beg.”

Fernald could only give a groan and nod. 

“Tell me more.” The tip of her index finger circled one of his nipples. Before, he’d never cared much one way or the other about being touched there--mildly pleasant, perhaps, but not much else. Now, though, he seemed to feel far more sensitive to her touch, and couldn’t stop himself gasping in pleasure when she gave his nipple a sharp pinch.

“Do that again,” he whispered. “Please.”

“You know the price.” She traced again over the same spot, just hard enough to emphasize the lingering sensation of pain, driving him mad with the need for more. With her position above him, his cock was between her legs already, and he could feel that she was hard too, but somehow she seemed to have much more self control than he did. 

“All right, all right, I’ll talk,” he surrendered. 

“Good boy,” she murmured, and even that--the praise, her _voice_ , all of it--made him even more desperate. 

“I like--god, really, what _don’t_ I like? Being tied up, being talked down to, general degradation. Make me obey you--just _use_ me, however you want,” he pleaded. 

But Rory had stopped teasing him and closed her eyes, and he feared that he’d gone too far. 

“Sorry, is that all too much?” he asked hastily. “We don’t need to do all those things--or any of them, if you don’t want.”

“Too much?” said Rory. “I feel like I’ve just won the lottery. You’re submissive _and_ you like pain? That’s like, a perfect match.”

And then she pinned his arms by his sides, kissing and biting his chest and _oh god_ sucking hard at his nipples, biting down lightly, just enough to sting, and she’d shifted so that her leg was between his. She held him down and moved against him, grinding her hip and thigh against his cock, and he could only make futile little thrusts that gave him no real relief. Still, the attempt seemed to please her and she increased the pressure of her movements. Somehow, impossibly, she made him feel that he was being very thoroughly fucked as she pressed against him, and she kept going, kept biting him, scratching him, teasing his now oversensitive nipples. He couldn’t let her make him finish like this--he was going to come in his shorts like some sort of overstimulated, inexperienced--god, it would be so _humiliating_ \--and that was the thought that finally pushed him over the edge.

“All right?” she asked as he continued to lie there, trying to catch his breath, shuddering with the occasional aftershock. 

He nodded vigorously, unable to speak just yet. Rory moved over to one side, held him close, letting him rest his head against her shoulder as she pressed gentle kisses to his face.

“You’re being nice to me already?” he asked when he finally managed to speak again. 

“Do you, um, not want me to?” she asked, looking faintly amused. 

Fernald gave a contented sigh as he relaxed against her. “Mmm. Ideally this is when you’d tell me how bad I was for coming without asking permission, and then punish me for it.”

For a moment, Rory closed her eyes again, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “Although we should probably talk about it a little more before we get into anything too intense.”

“I agree,” said Fernald. “But please let me get you off right now, I need it, _please_ , anything you say, just tell me how you want me.”

“On your knees,” said Rory, and Fernald immediately complied, slipping out of bed to kneel on the floor. Rory moved over to sit at the edge of the bed. 

“Please?” asked Fernald, and she nodded. He moved forward to nuzzle at her thighs, lifting the hem of her satin nightgown to reveal her hard cock beneath it, making her forget her role and give a needy whine at his hot breath against her skin. 

The she seemed to collect herself, and shifted forward, one hand coming down to rest at the back of his neck, urging him toward her. “Come on,” she ordered. 

He eagerly took her cock into his mouth, and really, she was being much too considerate, only giving the occasional shallow thrust, her hand firm but undemanding on his neck. It only made him want even more to satisfy her, and he took her in deeply, greedily, moaning at the sensation of her cock filling his mouth. Eventually, she seemed to catch on, began to move her hips more, the grip of her fingers tightening. He hoped she could tell how much he enjoyed this treatment--and he was pretty sure she did, since it didn’t take much longer for her to finish, squeezing her eyes shut and grabbing him by the arms as she did. 

“All right?” she asked him a moment later, gently cupping his face and pulling him upwards for a kiss. 

He kissed her deeply. “Thank you for that,” he said, climbing back into bed. “Although you were still way too nice about it.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to take things too far.” She smoothed the blankets over them both as Fernald lay down next to her. 

“After we have that talk, though,” said Fernald, “establish limits and all that, then you’ll really let me have it without holding back, right?”

‘If it’ll make--” Rory broke off with a yawn, “--make you happy, then yeah, totally.”

“You already make me happy, love. More than I could ever say.” 

She murmured something unintelligible as she rested her head against his chest, already half asleep, but he got the impression that the feeling was mutual.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author attempts to rectify having a terrible grasp of narrative time.
> 
> Also, for some reason I'm totally imagining Captain Widdershins being played by Alexei Sayle.

One evening, Fernald leaned into Rory’s kitchen doorway and asked, “Would you like to come meet my family tomorrow night? They’ll be back in the city from their research project.”

Rory paused to look up from dicing tomatoes. “Weren’t they supposed to be back, like, a super long time ago?”

“They were delayed,” explained Fernald. “There was an unexpected development in their project, and my sister discovered a new species of marine slime mold.”

“Slime...mold?” repeated Rory, trying and failing to conceal her disgust. “How nice.”

“It is for her,” said Fernald. “Fiona is a mycologist. Although technically slime molds are no longer classified as fungi,” he added helpfully.

“Oh,” said Rory absently. “Good. Um...you’re sure they’ll be cool about things? Your family, not the slime.”

Fernald smiled. “I understood. And yes, I’m quite sure, but after what happened with your parents, I completely understand if you don’t feel comfortable meeting them yet.”

“Yet?”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not about to let you go. Unless you want me to, of course,” he added quickly. “Don’t think that I would try to stop you if you wanted to end things.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” said Rory, “but I appreciate the reassurance. Do you prefer jalapeno peppers or poblanos?”

“Either one.”

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was that of peppers being chopped. Then Rory spoke at the same time as Fernald. “Are you sure they won’t--”

“I promise--”

They both stopped. 

“Go on,” said Fernald. 

“I was just going to ask, are you sure they won’t like, be mean to you or disown you or anything for being with me?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” said Fernald, “but if they do, it’ll be their loss.”

“What were you going to say?” she asked. 

“Only that there’s no need for you to worry. But I promise you, love, if they treat you with anything but respect, we won’t stay a second longer.”

###

The next day, Fernald actually did return to his own apartment to clean out the refrigerator and rifle through his closet in search of something suitable for the evening. The last time he’d been on the _Queequeg_ , if someone told him he’d be returning six months later with a girlfriend, he never would have believed it. Although they weren’t actually going on board the submarine--Fiona had extended the invitation, but Fernald suggested meeting somewhere on land instead. It was one thing, he’d reasoned, to meet one’s partner’s family for the first time, but doing so on a submarine added an entirely new level of pressure. 

Had it really been that long already? How had the time passed so quickly? He really ought to--or wanted to--do something to show Rory how he felt about her. Of course, he hoped that she knew from his everyday actions, but sometimes a larger gesture was in order. 

He left his apartment with a few hours to spare and a vague notion of perhaps picking up a bouquet of flowers, but somehow found himself among the small, dusty shops of the Antiques District. 

###

He arrived early at Rory’s apartment, and was surprised to find her mildly distressed when she let him in. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, hurrying back into the bedroom. “I must have lost track of time. I’ll be ready in a just a minute, I promise.”

“No, no, you have plenty of time,” Fernald assured her. “I’m early.” He took a seat on the edge of the mattress, now suddenly nervous. 

“Oh,” she said in relief. “I thought--” She didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she turned to the mirror and adjusted her hair bow. When she moved to the closet and slipped out of the satin robe she’d been wearing as she reached for a dress, Fernald had to take a deep breath and remind himself that they were going to see his stepfather and sister. It wouldn’t do to show up late and disheveled, but for a moment, he still _really_ wanted to.

Rory finished zipping up the back of her dress and turned around. “Do you think this is all right? I went shopping with Clarissa because I didn’t want to embarrass you and I know I’m not good at, like, fashion and things like that, and she helped me pick it out, but now I don’t know what else goes with it and--and--”

“Shh,” said Fernald gently. He rose from the bed and went to her. “It’s all right, love. What’s worrying you, really?”

Rory reached automatically for her scarf, but she wasn’t wearing one, and instead began to wring her hands. “Um...any time I’ve met someone’s family, it’s literally never gone well. And I mean literally literally, not figuratively literally. So even though I know you totally mean it when you say it won’t be like that, I’m still kind of anxious.”

He took her in his arms and pulled her close. “I didn’t realize. You don’t have to come with me. I can go by myself and come up with an excuse.”

Rory stepped back and took a deep breath. “No.” She paused for a moment, then nodded, as if she’d been convincing herself of it, and went on, “No, I want to go with you. I can do this. And I do want to. For you.” 

She grabbed a scarf from the open closet, put it back, chose a shawl instead, and gave one last look around. “I still feel like I’m missing something, but I can’t figure it out. Let’s go.”

“Just a second,” said Fernald. “I’d almost forgotten, but I have something for you. Perhaps it’ll solve your problem.”

“For me?” 

Fernald reached into his leather jacket and presented her with an oblong box, which he’d convinced the proprietor of the shop to gift wrap for him, a phrase which here means “look around peremptorily for wrapping paper, give a shrug, and settle for tying a scrap of ribbon around the box into a clumsy bow.” It was still more than Fernald could have done on his own, so he hadn’t complained. 

“What is it?”

“Go on and open it,” said Fernald. 

Still looking perplexed, she untied the ribbon and opened the box to find a delicate amethyst bracelet that Fernald had chosen.

“It’s all right if you don’t like it,” he said quickly. “I just--I wanted to get you something and I’m not even really sure whether you like jewelry but I saw this and the--the color made me think of you, if that makes any sense, and I thought--I hoped--you might like it.”

Rory looked up from it to him, eyes shining. “I love it,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I know the typical romantic thing would be for me to put it on for you,” he said apologetically, “but--”

She cut him off with a kiss, and his mind went blissfully blank for a moment. Afterwards, she clasped the bracelet around her wrist and watched the light play against the surface of the jewels. “I like how sparkly it is.” Then her face fell. “But I didn’t get you anything.”

Fernald laughed. “There wasn’t any occasion. I just felt like it, and I wanted to make sure you know how much I appreciate having you in my life.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you.” And she was gazing at him in admiration, and that brought again this feeling that he still wasn’t quite accustomed to, that he must have done something right.

###

A short time later, the two of them arrived at the small dockside restaurant that Fiona and Captain Widdershins had suggested. As they walked through the door, Rory kept one hand on Fernald’s arm--outwardly, a casually affectionate gesture, but he could tell from the way that she held onto him that she was apprehensive. And to tell the truth, he was, too, just a little. Maybe her worry had been contagious, but he couldn’t help questioning whether he’d been too optimistic. 

“Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “Remember, I’m right here with you. We’re in this together.”

He quickly located Fiona and the captain, and the two joined them at the table. 

“Fernald!” cried Fiona, rising hurriedly and hugging him. 

“It’s good to see you again,” said Fernald. 

“Aye, it is indeed,” said Captain Widdershins. 

“I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Rory,” said Fernald. “This is my sister, Fiona, and our stepfather, Captain Widdershins.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Rory. The captain bowed theatrically, and Fiona started in for another embrace, but Fernald quickly leaned in close to whisper, “She doesn’t like hugs,” in time for Fiona to gracefully transform the motion into a handshake. 

Everything seemed to go well. The conversation was pleasant, if superficial, and Fiona began to tell of her new discovery. 

Then, as the captain gestured grandly, the sweeping arc of his hand caught Rory’s wine glass and sent it crashing to the floor, where it shattered. As the waiter hurried over to the table, Rory automatically began to pick up the shards of broken glass. 

“I’m sorry about that, my dear,” said the captain. “Aye!”

“Be careful with--” Fernald began, but even as he spoke, she gasped and sat back up, pressing the linen napkin to her bleeding hand. 

“That’s all right, miss,” said the waiter, “I’ll take care of this.”

“Are you all right?” asked Fernald. 

“It’s just a little cut,” said Rory. “I’m fine.”

Fiona stood. “Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up. I’ve got a first aid kit in my bag.”

“Oh...that’s very prepared of you,” murmured Rory. 

“You never know when you might need it. She who hesitates is lost! Aye!”

“Aye!” agreed the captain.

“Um...okay,” said Rory, and stood, allowing Fiona to lead her away to the ladies’ room. 

“So,” said Captain Widdershins, once the waiter had gone, “your lady friend! Aye!”

“What about her?” asked Fernald cautiously. 

“She’s very tall! Aye!”

“So?” He was on the defensive now. Maybe he had assumed too much broad-mindedness on the part of his stepfather. 

“Reminds me a bit of your mother that way! Aye!”

Fernald allowed himself to relax. It was a harmless enough observation. His mother had, in fact, been quite tall. 

“Tell me more,” urged the captain. 

“Well…” Fernald hesitated. 

“Go on! He who hesitates is lost! Aye!”

“We met at work,” said Fernald, truthfully, if evasively. He didn’t want to revisit the subject of VFD with his stepfather at the moment. 

“Aye,” said the captain, nodding expectantly. “At this new theatre you told your sister about, aye?”

“Well...we’ve known each other a while longer than that,” Fernald admitted, then decided to come clean. “Actually, she’s a big part of the reason I left Count Olaf’s troupe.”

Captain Widdershins’s posture seemed to stiffen, and he paused with his fork in the air. “Is that so?” he said. 

“Yes. She always had doubts about what we were doing, and talked to me a lot about moral relativism and the corrupting influence of wealth and, you know, that sort of thing.”

“I see,” he said. “That’s very interesting! Aye! Although I have to say, that’s not the type of person I would have expected you be interested in! Aye!”

Fernald couldn’t tell now whether the captain was deliberately winding him up or not. Maybe he’d been wrong to give him the benefit of the doubt before. 

“All right,” he said sharply. “If you’re going to say something, say it outright.” He knew he was raising his voice now, but he was so upset at himself, believing that his family would be any more accepting than Rory’s had been. He slammed his hook down on the table and stood angrily. “There’s no need to go on hinting like this. She’s my girlfriend and I love her and nothing you can say will change that!”

“Shiver me timbers!” exclaimed the captain. “No need to make a scene, aye! I’ve got nothing against actors!” 

“Is everything all right?” asked Fiona. Fernald whirled around. Both his sister and Rory had approached behind him, unnoticed. He couldn’t guess how much they had heard. It was then that Fernald realized that many of the other restaurant patrons were staring at him. That annoyed him, but he could hardly blame them under the circumstances.   
As Fiona and Rory returned to their seats, Fernald sat slowly back down and took a breath. He felt as if his face were on fire. “Actors?” he repeated, his eyes burning into his stepfather’s. 

“Aye!” agreed the captain, looking at Fernald as if he were rather concerned for his sanity. “It was you who always used to argue that the sciences were more intellectually rigorous than the humanities! Aye! Quite the disdain you used to have for writers and artists and actors! Aye!”

“I never--oh, well, I suppose I did used to say that, didn’t I?” said Fernald. It was rather embarrassing to be reminded of his teenage arrogance, even if that was just a drop in the bucket compared to his current embarrassment. “Look, I was sort of an idiot back then,” he said. “Needless to say, my opinions have changed.”

The rest of the evening went smoothly, with no further mention made of Fernald’s momentary outburst, and the two pairs parted ways outside the restaurant. Captain Widdershins clapped Fernald rather too enthusiastically on the shoulder and proclaimed that they must see each other again soon (aye), and Fernald watched for a moment as he and Fiona walked off in the direction of the shore. 

The sun had nearly set, the cool blue of twilight spreading over the quay, and the sea breeze chilled the air. Silently, the two set off toward the nearest trolley stop. Now Fernald could clearly formulate his thoughts, the primary one being that he’d just behaved like an absolute fool and made an irreparable mess of things. He couldn’t bring himself to speak until after they’d boarded the trolley and it began to carry them in the direction of the Beverage District. 

Fernald spoke, staring off into the darkness. “So how much--”

“What exactly--”

“Go on,” they said in unison, then paused. 

“Er--I was going to ask, how much of that did you overhear back there?” asked Fernald. 

Rory looked down and toyed with her bracelet. “Not a lot. Although I have to say,” she went on, her voice holding a trace of amusement, “I’ve never had anyone shout that they loved me in front of an entire restaurant before.” 

Fernald breathed a sigh of relief. At least she wasn’t terribly angry. 

“Yes, well, I _am_ sorry about that,” he said. “It is true, though. Are you very upset with me?”

“Upset?” She placed a gentle hand on his arm, and he finally looked at her directly. “I’m not upset at all. But what in the world prompted that?”

“Nothing, really,” he said. “My stepfather said something and I misunderstood and I suppose I was feeling rather on the defensive.”

“That’s...actually really sweet,” said Rory. “Oh, and I love you too, by the way.”

Fernald couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Actually, I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Would you like to move in with me? Like, officially? I realize that’s pretty much already happened, but you still have your own place, and we never really explicitly decided anything. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.

“Of course I want to,” said Fernald, and kissed her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now it's time to randomly have a chapter from Rory's POV I guess

For the rest of the trolley ride, Rory had a strange feeling of exhilaration. She wasn’t used to this--her boyfriend had just agreed to move in with her (even if the question had been a mere formality at this point) _and_ she’d met his family and nothing had gone wrong. She quite liked Fiona, who hadn’t hesitated even a little to take Rory into the ladies’ room with her, and had even given a formidable glare to the older woman there who’d looked as if she’d been about to make a disapproving remark. 

Now, Fernald leaned over to rest his head against her shoulder, and she closed her arms around him. Sometimes she wished it was possible to transmit emotions by touch. She’d often thought her life would be much easier if she could make her feelings understood without having to speak, without having to sift through the myriad _words_ that all seemed inadequate. 

He turned to nuzzle against her throat. “You smell like jasmine,” he murmured. “And the ocean.”

Immediately, his breath against her skin made her heart begin to race. “When we get home,” she began, “would you like…?”

“When we get home,” he said, his voice low and filled with need, “I expect to be thoroughly put in my place. After all,” he said, “I suppose I did misbehave rather badly tonight, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did,” she said, taking care to keep her tone just playful enough to make sure he wouldn’t think she was really mad. “Luckily, I have plenty of time to think up a suitable punishment for you.”

He gave a barely perceptible shiver, and she smiled faintly as she held him close. 

When they got off the trolley and took a shortcut through a narrow back alley toward her--no, _their_ apartment, Rory had to try very hard to suppress the urge to push Fernald up against the brick wall and kiss him. She almost did it anyway, but she knew it wouldn’t fit with his “punishment,” so she held herself back. She wanted him in a state of anticipation for this. 

As soon as they were home, she ordered him, “Five minutes. Be ready for me.”

Fernald nodded eagerly at the command and hurried off to the bedroom. 

Rory sank down onto the sofa and took a moment to relax, or at least to attempt it. Already she was imagining what she was going to do to Fernald. God, his _reactions_ to everything she did--the way he got so worked up, becoming amazingly responsive to the slightest sensation. 

She’d been planning to undress, knowing the impression she’d make walking into the bedroom in nothing but lingerie and heels, but it wouldn’t do to let Fernald see just how excited she was already. Good thing she’d chosen a dress with a full, flowing skirt today--all the better for concealing her erection right now. She was just as eager as he was, but she knew he got off on seeing her in control when he wasn’t. 

Finally, she made her way to the bedroom. Fernald knelt, fully naked, by the foot of the bed. 

Rory walked around slowly to stand behind him, close enough that he’d be able to feel her presence even in the absence of touch. “Do you remember your safewords?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me?” she said sharply.

“I mean, yes, Miss Rory.”

“That’s better,” she said. “Tell me.”

He didn’t look up from the invisible spot on the floor where he’d trained his gaze. “Green to go on. Yellow to slow things down. Red means stop.”

“Good,” she said, and moved to stand in front of him. “Now tell me why we’re here.”

“Because I’ve been bad...I was very, very bad.” Already his breathing had gotten faster, and--she glanced down--yes, he was hard right now, already. 

“How dare you,” she hissed. 

Fernald ventured a lightning-quick glance up at her to see that she pointed at his erect cock, then hung his head again. “I’m sorry, Miss Rory. I can’t help it. Looking at you makes me hard.”

“That’s enough from your filthy mouth,” she said. “It looks like I’ll have to teach you some self-control, too. Get on the bed.”

Obediently, he rose and sat at the edge of the bed. Rory pushed him backwards, none too gently, onto his back. 

She took hold of his cock and roughly began to jerk him off. She was impressed that he lay absolutely still, and almost managed to be quiet. 

“Don’t think I’m being lenient,” she said. “This is part of your punishment. You don’t think this is meant for your enjoyment, do you?”

His eyes went wide as he realized what she was about to do, and she smirked. 

“No, Miss Rory, please, don’t--please--”

She could tell he was almost there, trying to resist, because he knew what was about to happen. She stroked him once more, then again, and let go. She’d timed it perfectly. His cock pulsed and he gave a cry of disappointment, failing to hold himself back, ejaculating onto his stomach and chest untouched, without relief. 

“Pathetic,” she said. “Maybe we’ll just have to keep doing that until you learn how to control yourself, hmm?”

Fernald shook his head. 

“No?” said Rory. “Well, we’ll see about that.” Her eyes travelled over him and she gave a sound of disapproval. “And you’ve made a mess of yourself, too.” She ran a hand over his skin, through the sticky fluid, then thrust her palm into his face, wiping it across his nose and cheeks. “Clean it up."

“Yes, Miss Rory,” he said, and began to lick her hand clean. He was very thorough about it, and she actually found the sensation quite pleasant. But now she’d let him go on too long, and he’d begun to suck her fingers--

She pulled her hand away and slapped his face--not too hard, even though she knew he liked it that way. “Very naughty. You haven’t learned your lesson at all, have you? Turn over.”

He complied, and she didn’t give him a chance to anticipate it before she dragged him toward her, over her knee, and slapped him hard on the ass.

“Tell me why I have to do this,” she demanded. 

“Because--I was--bad-- _fuck_ ,” he panted as she spanked him. “Too--too eager--and I--mis--misbehaved.”

She loved the way he shuddered in her grasp, crying out in mingled pain and pleasure each time she struck him. “God, yes--yes,” he whispered, and she chose to pretend she hadn’t heard.

When her hand started to become sore, she pushed him over onto the bed, pleased to see that he was hard again already. “Stay,” she ordered as she stood and went to the dresser to retrieve a bottle of lube. 

“You _like_ being bad, don’t you?” she murmured as she poured the cool liquid onto her fingers. “I think you like making me punish you.”

Fernald had closed his eyes, breathing hard. She seized him by the shoulder, forcing him to flip over, face down on the bed. Without warning, she roughly began to finger him open. When he started to sound as if he were enjoying it more than he was meant to, she stopped. 

Not bothering to undress, she simply lifted her skirt and freed her cock from her panties. As she applied more lube, she told him, “This isn’t for you. This is for me. Don’t come.”

“Y-yes, Miss Rory.”

Rory forced him to raise his hips off the bed, and he groaned loudly as she entered him. She didn’t give him any time to adjust before she began to fuck him hard and fast, gripping his shoulders, holding him down, and completely ignoring his cock. Fernald pressed his face against the mattress, trying to muffle his cries, sounding virtually intoxicated with lust and frustration. 

She didn’t want to finish too quickly, but god, the sounds he was making--Besides, she knew part of what he enjoyed was being denied while she did as she pleased, making him more and more desperate. She leaned down and bit his shoulder hard as she came. 

She pulled out of him and forced him to turn over again, onto his back, so that he had no chance of covertly touching himself as she undressed.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded. 

“Thank you, Miss Rory.” He had that familiar glazed look now, having totally given himself over to her control, and she tried not to shudder too visibly. _That_ feeling was more powerful than any orgasm.

She slipped off her dress, her bra and panties, and looked down at him as she returned to his side. “Have you learned your lesson?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, I promise, I--” He cried out as she gave his nipple a vicious pinch. “God, please,” he whispered frantically. “I want to come, please let me. Fuck me again, anything, I can’t take it, I’ll do anything you want--”

“It seems you haven’t, after all. We’ll have to find another use for that filthy mouth of yours.” She moved up the bed and knelt over his face. “Go on.”

Fuck, she’d forgotten how good he was at this--she should have let him rim her _before_ she fucked him, but even so, it still felt good. She was glad that in this position, he couldn’t see her biting her hand to keep herself quiet, to maintain the illusion of control. 

She hadn’t been planning on getting off a second time, but god, Fernald was _really really good_ at this, and she let him keep going, longer than she’d meant to, until she’d started to get hard again. 

Finally, she moved away and poured more lube onto her fingers, quickly making herself ready. She climbed onto Fernald and took told of his cock, easing down onto it so that just the tip was penetrating her. 

“Please-- _please_ \--”

“You’re not allowed to come until I give you permission.” She let herself sink down onto him, all the way.

“Oh fuck--oh please, I can’t--I can’t--”

“If you want to be good for me, you can,” she said with finality. 

He nodded in defeat. “Yes, Miss Rory.”

She could feel the way his entire body was twitching under her now, straining with effort, and she knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer. 

She moved slowly on his cock, finding the spot she wanted him to hit, stroking herself at an increasingly rapid pace. Beneath her, Fernald was giving desperate little cries, trying and failing not to move his hips. “No--no--” he pleaded. “Miss Rory, please, let me, I can’t--”

She was close now, she’d be able to bring herself off quickly now with just a few motions of her hand. 

“Come for me,” she ordered, and slammed herself down onto him, giving her cock a few last strokes, and she came, tightening around him. He screamed as he finally allowed himself to release, and she kept moving until he lay still, completely spent. She lifted herself off of him and collapsed next to him on the bed. 

She touched his cheek gently, still pink from where she’d slapped him, and without hesitation, he kissed her greedily, as if he never wanted to stop. Finally he did, though, and after she’d caught her breath, Rory asked, “So how was that for you?”

“That was--that was...incredible.” He threw his arms around her and rested his head on her chest. She stroked his back soothingly and kissed him on the forehead. “You can total--er, definitely hit me harder next time, though.”

“Are you sure?”

“I like it.”

“All right. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

She went into the bathroom, took a moment to clean herself up, and returned with a warm, wet cloth and a bottle of lotion. Taking a seat next to him, she gently wiped his face and chest, cleansing him of sweat and semen as he lay there exhausted. “Turn over.”

He made a sound of protest. 

“Go on. You’ll thank me later.”

Fernald obeyed and she began to rub his back and his ass with a soothing aloe vera cream, his skin still visibly marked where she’d struck him. “Better?” she asked. 

He murmured assent before turning back over. 

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“No, love, just come here and let me lie here with you a while.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some consensual roleplay noncon.

Standing outside the bedroom door, Fernald took a deep breath to prepare himself. He and Rory had decided to try a little roleplay. She’d hesitantly suggested it after coming across an interesting scenario in a romance novel she’d been reading, and he’d readily agreed. In the romance--or perhaps erotica was the better term--a group of young women caught a prowler trying to break into their sorority house, captured him, and had their way with him. So now, Fernald was to play the intruder, only to have the tables turned on him. He wasn’t sure about taking on a dominant role, but after all, it was only for a minute or so. Just setup, really. Soon enough, he’d be back on familiar ground. 

He pushed open the door. Rory looked up quickly from where she lay on the bed, reading a book, pretending to be shocked at his sudden entrance. “What--”

“You know what I want,” he growled, advancing upon her. 

She dropped her book and sat up, scooting back across the bed, away from him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’ll do more than think,” said Fernald, continuing toward her. He wasn’t entirely sure if that line made sense, but he’d at least gotten the menacing tone right. Now he crossed to the other side of the bed and stood over her. “I’d only intended to commit burglary tonight, but now that I find you here…”

“What are you going to do?” asked Rory. 

Fernald had expected that she’d take control by now--he was just waiting for her to throw him down onto the bed, to overpower him in some way, but she hadn’t. Perhaps she wanted things to escalate a bit so that he’d be really humiliated to be “captured.” All right, he could improvise. 

“I--er--I’m going to fuck you?” It occurred to him that he ought to sound more confident about this. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, more assured now. “I’m definitely going to take advantage of your vulnerable situation!”

He pushed her back onto the bed, and was momentarily surprised at how easily she yielded, not resisting at all, so that he ended up shoving her down harder than he’d meant to. At the back of his mind, a hint of worry sprang up--this wasn’t quite how this was supposed to go. But Rory was in charge here; any second now she’d take over.

Fernald loomed over her. “I certainly am glad that you’re so easily subdued,” he went on, a touch desperately, hoping she’d take the hint. “I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do if things stopped going my way.”

Rory wasn’t quite looking at him, but somewhere past him, appearing faintly concerned, her expression a little more blank than was usual when they did something like this. “I--I don’t...”

Was she expecting him to go even further? She must be, but the scenario was slipping further and further from his comfort zone, in a way that he wasn’t sure that he liked. It felt...off, somehow, to say these things, even if the two of them were only playing. But if it was what she wanted--

He hooked his forearm around the back of her neck, forcing her closer. “How about you start off by sucking my cock?”

She wasn’t stopping him, wasn’t fighting back the way she was supposed to be. Perhaps she found that she unexpectedly liked being submissive too? But no, as he looked down at her--she didn’t look as if she were enjoying it at all. In fact, she looked miserable, and to his shock, he saw that her eyes were welling up with tears. 

Fernald let go of her at once. He didn’t understand. This was the opposite of how it was supposed to go--she was supposed to stop him, she was the one in charge, but something had gone terribly wrong. 

He spoke, clearly and firmly. “Red.”

For a moment, Rory blinked up at him, and then seemed to come back to herself. She scrambled away to the opposite corner of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. 

Fernald followed. “Are you all right, love?” He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she shrank away, as if his touch had hurt her. 

“Don’t.”

He nodded and backed away, giving her space. “I’m sorry. Please talk to me. What happened? How can I help?”

For a little while, she stared down at the blankets, resting her chin on her knees, seeming to struggle to respond. Finally, she sat up straighter and looked at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--it just got a little too real for me.”

He wanted so badly to hold her, to reassure her, but she’d made it clear that wasn’t what she wanted from him right now. “I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again,” he said in a rush. “I would never--please forgive me.”

Rory inched closer and rested a tentative hand on his arm. “Shh. Don’t blame yourself. I’m okay. Mostly. I think.” She frowned a little. “You didn’t do anything wrong--you only did what I told you to. If anything, this is my fault. I had no idea I’d freeze up like that. I mean, I’ve never even--” She shook her head.

“Well, we won’t try that again,” said Fernald decisively. He hesitated. She still looked a bit shaken, but hadn’t moved away from him. “Is it okay for me to touch you?”

Rory nodded. He moved closer and gently touched her shoulder, still uncertain. She sank back against his chest, and he closed his arms around her. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, sweetheart. Even the thought of ever hurting you for real--” He broke off and buried his face in her hair. The very idea of it was so abhorrent to him that he couldn’t finish voicing it aloud. 

“I know.” She turned to face him, and kissed him softly. “I love you too.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!
> 
> Contains some noncon roleplay (but it works out better than the last time).

Somehow, she’d convinced him to try it again. This time, though, they would begin with Fernald’s character already having been captured and subdued. 

Rory had, apparently, been practicing her bondage techniques, and Fernald could hardly contain his excitement when he learned what she wanted to do. He loved being tied up, but hadn’t done it in a long time, and had been too hesitant to ask. He’d thought his current circumstances would make it too difficult, too awkward, so he’d never brought up the idea after the night that he’d confessed to liking it. 

She’d tied him down to the bed, checked the tightness of the ropes, made him recite his safewords, and then disappeared, leaving him to wait, to become increasingly aroused. 

Fernald lay spread eagle on the bed, blindfolded, ropes encircling his arms, his thighs, his ankles. Even the feeling of the ropes against his skin was an almost unbearable turn on, and the way he felt so exposed on top of that--he was already desperate, hyper-aware of the pressure against his cock, fighting the urge to squirm and thrust against the mattress--

Then Rory spoke. “So you thought you could just come in here and do whatever you wanted, is that it? I bet you weren’t expecting this.” 

God, yes, this was good, the coldness in her voice as she taunted him--

“Let me go,” said Fernald, totally failing to sound either angry or pleading. “I’ll make sure you regret this.”

“I don’t think so,” said Rory. “Now that I’ve caught you, I’m going to have some fun with you.” 

He felt something being trailed over his back, and he recognized the smooth, rich texture of leather just before it was taken away, and then the strands of the flogger bit into his skin. He cried out, a little bit in pain, a little bit in surprise, but mostly in pleasure. He’d known this was a possibility--he’d agreed to it, after all--but hadn’t known exactly _what_ to expect. 

“Maybe this will teach you to think twice before sneaking around where you don’t belong,” said Rory, and struck him again. 

This time, he couldn’t keep the enjoyment out of his voice. The leather stung against his skin once more, then again, and then he lost track. 

“You actually like this, don’t you?” Her tone of disgust was quite convincing. “That’s just how depraved you are, isn’t it?”

“N-no--stop it.” To his delight, she slapped him hard on the ass. “Oh _fuck_ , yes. I--I mean--no, don’t,” he said unconvincingly. 

As she continued to spank him, the impact caused friction between his cock and the blankets--not enough to _really_ do much for him, only enough to tease him. Fuck, and the feeling of his legs being spread like this, unable to protect himself, knowing that he couldn’t resist if he tried, it all combined to make him shudder with pleasure. 

“I--I promise I’ll go away and never bother you again,” he gasped. “Just let me go.”

“You like it,” she said. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t.” She reached between his legs, caressing his balls, her fingers pressing against his perineum, trailing up over his asshole. The feeling of being restrained, powerless to stop her-- 

“No,” he managed again, although his brain was screaming _yes_. “Not there.” 

“You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.” She slapped his inner thigh, making him flinch at the unexpected pain. She was exactly right, and he loved it--being totally helpless, totally at her mercy, completely unable to do anything about her exploring hand between his legs.

Her fingertips circled his asshole, teasing, and any second now he expected her fingers inside him--but no, she was--oh fuck, she was licking him--this was even better than what he’d hoped for. 

When he could catch his breath and stop crying out, he managed, “Oh god--don’t.” He had no idea why, but pretending he didn’t want it made it even hotter, and somehow, he’d had the good luck to find someone who wasn’t bothered by it. 

And now her fingers were opening him up, quickly, and something else was sliding into him, not her fingers or her tongue or her cock, but a toy, a rather _large_ toy, making him feel almost uncomfortably full. 

She slid it slowly in and out of him, angling it to hit his prostate, and distantly, he could hear himself crying out in time with its rhythm, thrusting into him, but mentally, he was on another plane of existence entirely. And then--

“Surprise,” she whispered, and he heard the faintest click before the toy inside him began to vibrate, and he gave a shout, straining against the ropes. _Fuck_ , this was good. He knew he was gasping, crying out unintelligibly.

“Come now,” she ordered. 

He absolutely would have if he could, but--“I--I can’t,” he gasped. “Not just from this.”

Unexpectedly, the flogger stung against his back again, and he gave a cry. The mixture of sensations, so amazing--

“I said come for me. You don’t have a choice.” 

“I can’t--I can’t.” He’d never been able to come this way before, not from prostate stimulation alone. Another click, and the vibrations grew stronger. He could feel it all through his ass, his legs, his lower back. His muscles tensed, his hips jerking involuntarily. “Oh god--maybe I can.” 

And then--she turned it off, leaving him without sensation, and he gave a howl, trying to thrust back against her, to jam the toy deeper inside him, anything. 

“Please--oh god, please, please let me--”

“Please what?” she taunted. 

“Oh _fuck_ \--please let me come, don’t leave me like this--”

“I could, you know. Just let you stay like this for a while to think about what you’ve done.”

She could, he knew--he’d agreed to that, too. If she did, he’d find it quite enjoyable, but at the moment, it was even more enjoyable to beg. 

“I’ll do anything--anything you want, just don’t stop--”

“Anything?”

He nodded vigorously. She switched the vibrator back on, but only to its lowest setting--still unbearably pleasurable, but not enough to get him off. He heard her move toward the head of the bed, and she grabbed him roughly by the face. 

“Is this what you want?” she asked, tracing the head of her cock over his lips. 

He shook his head, barely able to keep up the pretense. 

“I think it is,” she said, and thrust into his mouth. He gave a muffled groan around her cock. God, this was wonderful. He sucked greedily. He could barely move, but she took care of that for him. Fuck, with her cock in his mouth and the toy in his ass, he felt used, completely degraded. Fleetingly, he thought the only way it could be better is if it were an actual cock in his ass, but then again, that wouldn’t be able to vibrate. Too soon, she withdrew, and he couldn’t help giving a whine as she moved away--he loved it when she came in his mouth, but maybe she had something else planned. 

“You seem like you’re enjoying this after all.”

He ought to protest, however feebly, but rational thought was only barely within his grasp. “Fuck my mouth,” he pleaded. “Let me taste your come.” He would never be able to say these things under normal circumstances, but when the two of them played, it was as if he was able to shut off that part of his brain, the inhibition that left him too embarrassed to say such filthy things, and he loved it. 

And now her cock was back in his mouth, pumping into him as he flexed against the ropes. He was totally consumed by the feeling of being tied down, and then Rory suddenly slowed her movements and Fernald felt hot liquid hit the back of his throat. 

He didn’t even realize she’d moved away until she began to fuck him with the toy again, still turned to its lowest setting, vibrating gently. His cock ached, even his nipples sensitive against the blanket. He strained against the ropes, and again the feeling of being restrained made him shudder with intense pleasure. He needed more, needed stronger sensation even at the same time that he knew it would overwhelm him. 

“M-more,” he gasped out. 

“More?” said Rory. “You’re--you’re so greedy.” For just an instant, the facade cracked, her voice catching, her palm gliding over his back with a startling tenderness. 

Then she slapped his ass, making the vibrator shift inside him, and Fernald could only groan in response. All at once, she switched the vibrator to its highest setting, stronger even than he’d expected, and he screamed, sobbing into the mattress as he came hard.

Distantly, he was aware of things happening around him that weren’t important right now, sensations against his skin, a sudden light too harsh for his now-sensitive eyes. He felt incredibly relaxed, with no inclination to move or speak.

Rory stroked his back, rubbing into his skin some substance that immediately cooled the burning sting. She was talking, too, but the words didn’t quite register, and then she’d paused, as if he’d missed his cue--ah, yes, there must have been something that required a reply, but that didn’t concern him very much. 

“Babe? Are you okay? Did I break you?” she asked, prodding his arm gently. 

“Mmm.” That was a start toward speech, anyway. “Only in the best way.”

She was sitting next to him on the edge of the bed, so he made short work of grabbing her around the waist and pulling her down next to him. Her peremptory protests quickly subsided, and the two of them kissed. 

“I love you,” she told him, lying down next to him. “Oh, and by the way--that was super hot. You did amazing.”

_Amazing_...yes, that was the right word. He understood now. 

Fernald blinked up at her, trying to find the words to explain what had just come into his head. “You --I--” That wasn’t right. Oh. Yes. Now he knew what it was. He took a deep breath in preparation to speak--and paused suddenly, the words _marry me_ at the tip of his tongue. No. He couldn’t say that now, not like this. If he did, the best case response would be Rory telling him he was delirious. Worst case, she’d think he was being facetious and would be deeply hurt. That wouldn't do at all. 

“What is it?”

Fernald looked up quickly. “Hmm?”

“Oh...I thought you looked like you were going to say something.” Rory gave a puzzled tilt of the head, as if awaiting confirmation or denial. 

Fernald allowed himself a tiny, secretive smile, the kind he had learned from her. He had plenty of time, after all, to figure out how he’d ask. “It’s nothing, love. I’ll tell you in the morning.”


End file.
